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crowd in prideful expectancy that all his friends would seek to know
his mother. She had entered the hall at eight o'clock, and for two
hours held court, the most distinguished people there pressing eagerly
forward to be presented to her. . . . From her slightly elevated
position, she could, without rising, overlook the floor, and watched
with quiet pleasure the dancers, among them the kingly figure of the
Commander-in-Chief, who led a Fredericksburg matron through a minuet.

At ten o'clock, she signed to him to approach, and rose to take his
arm, saying in her clear soft voice, "Come, George, it is time for old
folks to be at home." Smiling a good-night to all, she walked down the
room, as erect in form and as steady in gait as any dancer there.

One of the French officers exclaimed aloud, as she disappeared:

"If such are the matrons of America, she may well boast of illustrious
sons!" . . . . .

Lafayette's report of his interview to his friends at Mt. Vernon was:
"I have seen the only Roman matron living at this day!"

FOOTNOTE:

[35] By permission of author and publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
Boston.

AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.

~1835=----.~

MRS. WILSON was born at Columbus, Georgia, but early removed to
Mobile, Alabama. Her first novel was "Inez: a Tale of the Alamo,"
published in 1855. She was married to Mr. L. M. Wilson of Mobile in
1868, and they had a delightful suburban home at Spring Hill. Since
Mr. Wilson's death, she resides in Mobile. Her novels, especially "St.
Elmo," have made a great sensation in the reading world: they evince
great ability and learning. See Miss Rutherford's "American Authors."

WORKS.

 Inez: a Tale of the Alamo.
 Macaria.
 Vashti.
 At the Mercy of Tiberius.
 Beulah.
 St. Elmo.
 Infelice.

"_St. Elmo_ contains a description of that marvel of oriental
architecture, the Taj Mahal at Agra in India,--a marble tomb erected
to perpetuate the name of Noormahal, whom Tom Moore has immortalized
in his 'Lalla Rookh.' A recent traveller visiting Agra in 1891 writes
that he was surprised to find a Parsee boy almost in the shadow of the
Taj Mahal reading a copy of the London edition of Mrs. Wilson's
_Vashti_. . . . Her style has been severely criticised as pedantic,
but certainly this charge may with equal justice be brought against
George Meredith, Bulwer, and George Eliot, and it is well established
that Mrs. Wilson's books have in many instances stimulated her young
readers to study history, mythology, and the sciences, from which she
so frequently draws her illustrations."--Miss Rutherford.

A LEARNED AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.

(_From St. Elmo._[36])

Edna had risen to leave the room when the master of the house entered,
but at his request resumed her seat and continued reading.

After searching the shelves unavailingly, he glanced over his shoulder
and asked:

"Have you seen my copy of De Guérin's Centaur anywhere about the
house? I had it a week ago."

"I beg your pardon, sir, for causing such a fruitless search; here is
the book. I picked it up on the front steps where you were reading a
few evenings since, and it opened at a passage that attracted my
attention."

She closed the volume and held it toward him, but he waved it back.

"Keep it if it interests you. I have read it once, and merely wished
to refer to a particular passage. Can you guess what sentence most
frequently recurs to me? If so, read it to me."

He drew a chair close to the hearth and lighted his cigar.

Hesitatingly Edna turned the leaves.

"I am afraid, sir, that my selection will displease you."

"I will risk it, as, notwithstanding your flattering opinion to the
contrary, I am not altogether so unreasonable as to take offense at a
compliance with my own request."

Still she shrank from the task he imposed, and her fingers toyed with
the scarlet fuchsias; but after eyeing her for a while, he leaned
forward and pushed the glass bowl beyond her reach.

"Edna, I am waiting."

"Well, then, Mr. Murray, I should think that these two passages would
impress you with peculiar force."

Raising the book, she read with much emphasis:

"'Thou pursuest after wisdom, O Melampus! which is the science of the
will of the gods; _and thou roamest from people to people, like a
mortal driven by the destinies_. In the times when I kept my
night-watches before the caverns, I have sometimes believed that I was
about to surprise the thoughts of the sleeping Cybele, and that the
mother of the gods, betrayed by her dreams, would let fall some of her
secrets. But I have never yet made out more than sounds which faded
away in the murmur of night, or words inarticulate as the bubbling of
the rivers.' . . . 'Seekest thou to know the gods, O Macareus! and
from what source, men, animals, and elements of the universal fire
have their origin? The aged ocean, the father of all things, keeps
locked within his own breast these secrets; and the nymphs who stand
around sing as they weave their eternal dance before him, to cover any
sound which might escape from his lips, half opened by slumber.
Mortals dear to the gods for their virtue have received from their
hands lyres to give delight to man, or the seeds of new plants to make
him rich, but from their inexorable lips--nothing!'

"Mr. Murray, am I correct in my conjecture?"

"Quite correct," he answered, smiling grimly.

Taking the book from her hand he threw it on the table, and tossed his
cigar into the grate, adding in a defiant, challenging tone:

"The mantle of Solomon did not fall at Le Cayla on the shoulders of
Maurice de Guérin. After all he was a wretched hypochondriac, and a
tinge of _le cahier vert_ doubtless crept into his eyes."

"Do you forget, sir, that he said, 'When one is a wanderer, one feels
that one fulfils the true condition of humanity?' and that among his
last words are these, 'The stream of travel is full of delight. Oh!
who will set me adrift on this Nile?'"

"Pardon me if I remind you, _par parenthèse_, of the preliminary and
courteous _En garde!_ which should be pronounced before a thrust. De
Guérin felt starved in Languedoc, and no wonder! But had he penetrated
every nook and cranny of the habitable globe, and traversed the vast
zaarahs which science accords the universe, he would have died at last
as hungry as Ugolino. I speak advisedly; for the true Io gad-fly,
_ennui_, has stung me from hemisphere to hemisphere, across
tempestuous oceans, scorching deserts, and icy mountain ranges. I have
faced alike the bourrans of the steppes, and the Samieli of Shamo, and
the result of my vandal life is best epitomized in those grand but
grim words of Bossuet: '_On trouve au fond du tout le vide et le
néant!_' Nineteen years ago, to satisfy my hunger, I set out to hunt
the daintiest food this world could furnish, and, like other fools,
have learned finally, that life is but a huge mellow golden Ösher,
that mockingly sifts its bitter dust upon our eager lips. Ah! truly,
_on trouve au fond du tout le vide et le néant_!"

"Mr.

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