e of another navigable river still beyond.

Leaving with regret the veranda which commanded so charming a
foreground, we enter the house, and are reminded by its low-browed,
old-fashioned rooms, of the country houses yet to be found in parts of
Ireland or on the Scottish border, with additions, made by the luxury
and love of foreign travel, of more than one generation of educated
Southern planters. Paintings from Italy illustrate the walls, in
juxtaposition with interesting portraits of early colonial governors and
their lovely womankind, limned with no uncertain hand, and full of the
vigor of touch and naturalness of drapery of which Copley has left us
too few exemplars; and one portrait of Benjamin West claims for itself
such honor as his own pencil can give. An excellent library--filled with
collections of French and English classics, and with those ponderous
editions of Voltaire, Rousseau, the _memoires pour servir_, books of
travel and history such as delighted our forefathers in the last
century, and many works of American and general history--affords ample
occupation for a rainy day.

But, alas! these, and all things good which else the house affords, can
be enjoyed but for a brief season. Just as nature has expanded every
charm, developed every grace, and clothed the scene with all the beauty
of opened flower, of ripening grain, and of mature vegetation, on the
wings of the wind the poisoned breath comes, borne to the home of the
white man, and he must fly before it or perish. The books lie unopened
on their shelves, the flower blooms and dies unheeded, and, pity 'tis
true, the old Madeira garnered 'neath the roof settles down for a fresh
lease of life, and sets about its solitary task of acquiring a finer
flavor for the infrequent lips of its banished master and his welcome
visitors. This is the story, at least, that we hear on all sides, and
such is the tale repeated to us beneath the porch, when the moon
enhances while softening the loveliness of the scene, and the rich
melody of mocking-birds fills the grove.

Within these hospitable doors Horace might banquet better than he did
with Nasidienus, and drink such wine as can only be found among the
descendants of the ancestry who, improvident enough in all else, learnt
the wisdom of bottling up choice old Bual and Sercial ere the demon of
oidium had dried up their generous sources forever. To these must be
added excellent bread, ingenious varieties of the _ga