University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH THE HISTORY RETURNS TO OTHER PERSONAGES:
AND CHRONICLES A SLEIGH-RIDE.

The great waves of time which ever flow on over joys
and griefs, over sorrows and rejoicings—scarcely reflecting
in their ever-changing surfaces, the brightest smiles, and
absorbing carelessly the bitterest tears—the waves of time

have swept onward, since the events we have just detailed;
and another month has nearly passed into a thing of
memory. Winter faints on the threshold of the spring
which comes in, brilliant and rejoicing;—but as though
to marshal all his forces for a final struggle, the old
Winter has exhausted his entire strength in his last snow
storm.

At the door of a handsome and comfortable house in
the outskirts of the city, a sleigh is standing; and the
spirited horses, held with difficulty by a diminutive African,
who is suspended in the air from their foaming mouths,
toss their heads, and send the snow up in rainbow clouds
with their impatient hoofs.

Soon the door of the mansion opens—a good-humored
old gentleman and his equally good-humored wife appear;
and behind these may be seen the faces of a younger gentleman,
a young lady, and two little girls—all wrapped up
securely for a sleigh-ride.

The good-humored old gentleman is Mr. Ashton, cousin
and host of Miss Aurelia—the old lady is his wife; the
young gentleman is our friend, Mr. Sansoucy; the young
lady, Aurelia:—lastly, the little girls, who are twins, constitute
the entire, remaining family of the old gentleman
and his wife.

Miss Aurelia is enveloped in a multitude of furs, and
her rosy cheeks and dancing eyes, cause this young lady
to present an appearance decidedly attractive.

“Oh, me!” cries Miss Aurelia, laughing gaily, “am I
to trust my valuable neck to those wild animals.?”

“Pshaw!” Mr. Sansoucy says, putting on his gloves,

“they are admirably broken, madam; and even if they
were wild, you know my prowess as a driver”

“I, sir!”

“Yes—when we were children—twenty years ago, you
know!—”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Come,” says Mr. Sansoucy, laughing: “here's a
young lady who is growing ashamed of her age, and who
does not deign to remember when we rode colts together—”

“Never, sir! I deny it!”

“Very well!”

“Oh, did you, cousin Aurelia?”

“Did you, cousin?”

These are the exclamations of Mademoiselles Lizzie
and Bel, who clap their diminutive hands, and rise on tiptoe
to look at the horses.

“Don't mind this gentleman, children,” says Aurelia,
with a delightful expression of elderly protection: “he's
dreadfully mischievous, and if he could run away with
us—”

“He would?” says Mr. Sansoucy.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I don't know that you are wrong, Miss Ashton.
But I promise to refrain to-day. Good morning, Mrs.
Ashton—good morning, sir—come, young ladies—we are
losing time.”

And Mr. Sansoucy issues forth, and takes the reins.

Aurelia and the children linger to embrace the old
folks, as young ladies of all ages will, and then they get
into the sleigh, which has four seats.

The manœuvres of Mr. Sansoucy upon that occasion,
would have excited the admiration of the greatest tactician
in the world.

His affectionate solicitude to see the children wrapped
up, warmly and comfortably, in the back-seat, was touching
to behold; and such was his anxiety about their
welfare, that he absolutely neglected Miss Aurelia, who
stood in the snow, and shivered and pouted beautifully.

As the children took up all the back seat thus, it was
absolutely necessary that Mr. Sansoucy should place
Aurelia on the seat beside himself; and this he did,
making a soft and pleasant seat for the young lady, by
spreading over it, a magnificent buffalo robe. A variegated
robe, edged with crimson, was then thrown over—
shall we say—Miss Aurelia's knees: and so, with joyous
laughter, and the noise of bells, the sleigh fled onward—
the frolicsome horses held in by the experienced hand of
their admirable driver.

On, through the city! sending up clouds of snow!—
by merry groups of boys at street corners, who sent after
the party showers of snow balls, which caused Bel and
Lizzie—recognizing beaus among the crowd—to shout
with laughter!—on, by the glittering stores, with their
picture-crowded windows, by the long rows of houses,
brilliant internally with roaring fires, by gentlemen and
ladies, children, and their sports—the merry sleigh flew
on, and out of the city, leaving in its wake the joyous
jingle of its silver bells, and disappearing like a meteor
or a shooting star.

They fled into the country, through the vast bleak-looking

fields, and past the comfortable farm houses—
every eye dancing with delight, even down—or up—to
Mr. Sansoucy, grown a boy again, and innocent of any
connection with the “Weekly Mammoth.” which had
passed away from him, and rested no more, for the
moment on his conscience!

“Oh! we are going so fast!” cries Miss Aurelia, with
cheeks rosier than when she started, and a pair of
diamonds in place of eyes; how delightful!”

“Is it?” says her companion.

“Yes, indeed.

“Like old times?”

“No, not a bit. Monsieur was not so elegant a
cavalier in old times.”

“Possible!”

“Not half!”

And Miss Aurelia laughs merrily.

“I thought you liked me very well in old times,” said
Mr. Sansoucy, with a look which caused the rosy face to
grow even rosier. “Come, sing me, `Where are the
friends of my youth? Oh, where are those cherished
ones gone?' ”

And having revived this former joke by a plagiarism
upon himself, Mr. Sansoucy touched his horses with the
whip, and caused them to fly.

“I will not,” said Miss Aurelia, pouting; “if I sang
anything, it would be the new song.”

And she hummed, with a blush, and a laughing
glance, a lyric, which declared that under certain circumstances,

a person of the ancient mythology might
“go to Jericho.”

This was much applauded by Mr. Sansoucy, who
requested the remainder of the song, which was promptly
refused: and they fled on again—the bells having for
their undertone, the laughter of the happy children.

“Where is Monsieur taking us?” said Aurelia, after
a moment: “we must have gone nearly a hundred
miles!”

“Couldn't you go that far—with me?”

“No, sir!”

“How cruel! Now Bel or Lizzie would—wouldn't
you, little ones?”

“I would!” said Miss Bel, who had a pair of large,
dangerous eyes, which she was already learning to use.

“And you, Lizzie?” said Mr. Sansoucy, shaking with
laughter.

“If you brought us back to papa and mamma by dinner-time,”
said Lizzie, smiling.

“Dinner-time!” cried Mr. Sansoucy, shaking more
than ever: “can you think of dinner on such a day as
this?”

“I can, sir,” said Miss Aurelia, with a delicious expression
of matter-of-fact; “and I request to know
whether we are to dine at home, to-day, or on the Rocky
Mountains?”

“On the prairie!” said Mr. Sansoucy: “on the prairie,
and off of buffalo hump!”

“Oh! how nice that will be!” cried Miss Aurelia,

endeavoring to clap her hands, but only pressing Mr.
Sancoucy's arm, which chanced to interpose—which circumstance
caused the young lady to cease immediately,
and quickly draw away her hand.

“That bridge yonder—do you see it?” Mr. Sansoucy,
said, laughing.

“Yes!”

“Well, that bridge leads over the Mississippi—so we
are almost there.”

“`Are we almost there!”'

“Yes; what a charming voice.”

“Thanks, sir!”

“Have you adapted the song I wrote, in obedience to
your ladyship's commands, to music yet?” said Sansoucy.

“Hum!—well—”

“Oh! indeed you have, cousin Aurelia!” cried Bel.

“It's so pretty!” said Lizzie.

“And so very suitable!” said Aurelia, satirically.

“There's the unreasonableness of woman!” cried Mr.
Sansoucy, in despair. “I am asked to write upon a
given subject—I comply; and then I am taunted with
my compliance—a thing which I might have expected,”
added the speaker, with a gloomy look, “for who can
calculate upon women!”

Aurelia is touched by this tone of uncomplaining
sorrow, and says, faintly:

“You are very unjust, sir; and you have no right to
expect—if, however, I knew it a little better—”

“Oh! you know it very well!” cried little Bel; “you
were singing it all last night, cousin Aurelia!”

Miss Aurelia blushes and laughs.

“Please sing it, cousin, says Liz.

“And if my humble petition now renewed would—”

“Well, sir, I will try; and perhaps the contrast will
amuse you.”

And Miss Aurelia commences singing the following
lyric, which has been, as the reader heard, contributed by
Mr. Sansoucy—the design having been to furnish Misses
Liz and Bel with a song for their May-day festival, still
a long way off.

The merry sleigh bells serve for an accompaniment; and
the fine, tender voice of the young girl, with an undertone
of laughter, sings “The Children's Prayer to Maia,” which
is in the following words:

“Bravo!” cries Mr. Sansoucy, “never did troubadour
of Provence feel such ecstacy of delight at hearing his
own verses chaunted by the Queen of Love, at Aix!”

“Oh, how nice!” cries Bel.

“What 's mice, Miss Bel?”

“To call cousin Aurelia the Queen of Love!” cries
Bel, laughing merrily, and using her great eyes for Mr.
Sansoucy's benefit.

“She 's the queen of hearts!” cries Sansoucy, enthusiastically.

“But not Mr. Heartsease's!” replies Bel, with a shout
of laughter, in approbation of her first brilliant witticism.

“Heartsease!” murmurs Mr. Sansoucy, with a miserable
expression. “Heartsease! Never!”

“Never!” repeats Bel; “he never shall have cousin.”

“What a foolish child you are Bel,” Aurelia says, coloring
and laughing; “Mr. Sansoucy will think you are a
little chatter-box.”

“Oh, no he won't, cousin—will you, Mr. Sansoucy?”

“No, my little one.”

“For you know you said Liz and me were `cherubs'—
that was the very word!”

And the cherub laughs in a way eminently uncherubial.

“What nonsense we are all talking!” cries Aurelia, who
has regained all her merriment. “What nonsense! Only
suppose some author heard us, and was to set down every
word we say! How ridiculous it would be!—and everybody
would say he rioted in folly and frivolity.”

“Frivolity!” said Mr. Sansoucy, smiling too, “frivolity
is a terrible word, and knocks down more poor authors
than you could count. But, really, I don't see why we
should n't laugh and jest, my dear Aur—pardon! pardon!”

“There! that is a piece of folly, sir! and if you were
made a character in a book, the readers of the book would
say you were very impudent!” said Miss Aurelia, pouting.

“They would not;—they would admire me, and venerate
the lofty virtues which unbent themselves thus,
madam.”

“Oh, yes, certainly!”

“See, now, if they do not. I know a friend who writes
these frivolous romances: he lives in a garret, never stirs
out of town, even in the dog-days, and wears seedy garments,
as is proper in an author. Well, I will relate my
adventures to him, and we 'll all be put in a book! Think
of the honor! Yes, even you, mam'selles Bel and Liz,
will be immortalized—even down to your beaux yeux, little
Bel! I 'll buy a dozen copies—for your authors are
always out of money—and present a copy to each of you.”

“Oh, me! will you?” cries little Bel, with immense
eyes.

“Indeed I will!”

“How nice!”

And little Bel claps her hands, in the midst of universal
laughter. As she does so, the sleigh mounts a slope, and
they see just beneath them the bridge they had caught
sight of from the distant eminence—and for some mysterious
and unexplained reason, Miss Aurelia's pouting lips
unclose, and permit to escape, in a murmur, this single
word:

“The bridge!”