past, and by ridicule seek to propagate the
notion. This vain and pedantic philosophy would turn all hearts to
stone, and arm every man with suspicion against all others, declaiming
against the romance of life, as empty sentimentalism; against the
belief in goodness, as youth's sanguine folly; and the hope of pure
happiness, as a fanciful dream, created by a young imagination, to be
dissipated by the teaching of a few years' struggle with the world.

If this be wisdom, I am no philosopher, and I never wish to be one;
for sooner would I float upon the giddy current of fancy, to fall
among quicksands at last, than travel through a dull and dreary world,
without confidence in my companions. That we may be happy, that we
may find sincere friends, that we may meet the good, and enjoy the
beautiful on earth, is a creed that will find believers in all hearts
unsoured by their own asceticism. Virtue will sanctify every fireside
where we invite her to dwell, and if the clouds of misfortune darken
and deform the whole period of our existence, it is a darkness that
emanates from ourselves, and a deformity created by us to our own
unhappiness.

Yet this is not relating the little story which is the object of my
observations. The axiom which I wish to lay down, to maintain, and to
prove correct, is, that married life may be with most people, should
be with all, and is with many, a state of happiness. The reader
may smile at my boldness, but the history of the personages I shall
introduce to walk their hour on this my little stage, will justify my
adopting the maxim.

M. Pierre Lavalles, owner of a vineyard, near a certain village
in the south of France, wooed and wedded Mdlle. Julie Gouchard.
Exactly where they dwelt, and all the precise circumstances of their
position, I do not mean to indicate, and if I might offer a hint to
my contemporaries, it would be a gentle suggestion that they occupy
too much time, paper, and language in geographical and genealogical
details, very wearisome, because very unnecessary. Monsieur Pierre
Lavalles then lived in a pretty house, near a certain village in a
vine-growing district of the south of France, and when he took his
young wife home, he showed her great stores of excellent things,
calculated well for the comfortable subsistence of a youthful and
worthy couple. Flowers and blossoming trees shed odor near the lattice
windows, verdure soft and green was spread over the garden, and the
mantli