and in the end, with the
lessening fortunes of the Confederacy, grew more moody, and yet more
ruined by the consciousness that after once suffering the agony of
expatriation, they had not improved the added chance to make of
themselves men, not Colonists.

It is not the pleasantest phase of our human nature to depict, but since
we have essayed it, let it close with its own surrounding shadow.

If we have given no light touch of womanhood to relieve its sombre
career, we have failed to be artistic in order to be true.

But that which made the Colonists weak has passed away. There are no
longer slaves at home--may there be no exiles abroad!

LITTLE GRISETTE.

Little Grisette, you haunt me yet;
My passion for you was long ago,
Before my head was heavy with snow,
Or mine eye had lost its lustre of jet.
In the dim old Quartier Latin we met;
We made our vows one night in June,
And all our life was honeymoon;
We did not ask if it were sin,
We did not go to kirk to know,
We only loved and let the world
Hum on its pelfish way below;
Marked from our castle in the air,
How pigmy its triumphal cars:
Eight stories from the entry stair,
But near the stars!

Little Grisette, rich or in debt,
We were too fond to chide or sigh--
Never so poor that I could not buy
A sweet, sweet kiss from my little Grisette.
If I could nothing gain or get,
By hook, or crook, or song, or story,
Along the starving road to glory,
I marvelled how your nimble thimble,
As to a tune, danced fast and fleeting,
And stopped my pen to catch the music,
But only heard my heart a-beating;
The quaint old roofs and gables airy
Flung down the light for you to wear it,
And made my love a queen in faery,
To haunt my garret.

Little Grisette, the meals you set
Were sweeter to me than banquet feast;
Your face was a blessing fit for a priest,
At your smile the candle went out in a pet;
The wonderful chops I shall never forget!
If the wine was a trifle too sharp or rank,
We kissed each time before we drank.
The old gilt clock, aye wrong, was swinging
The waxen floor your feet reflected;
And dear Beranger's _chansons_ singing,
You tricked at _picquet_ till detected.
You fill my pipe;--is it your eyes
Whereat I light your cigarette?
On all but me the darkness lies
And my Grisette!

Little Grisette, the