The Spectacles

Many years ago, it was the fashion to ridicule the idea of

“love at first sight;” but those who think not less than those
who feel deeply, have always advocated its existence.
Modern discoveries, indeed, in what may be termed ethical
magnetism or magnetœsthetics, render it probable that the
most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most
intense of the human affections, are those which arise in the
heart as if by electric sympathy — in a word, that the
brightest and most enduring of the psychal fetters are those
which are riveted by a glance. The confession I am about to
make will add another to the already almost innumerable
instances of the truth of the position.

My story requires that I should be somewhat minute. I am

still a very young man — not yet twenty-two years of age. My
name, at present, is a very usual and rather plebeian one —
Simpson. I say “at present;” for it is only lately that I have
been so called — having legislatively adopted this surname
within the last year, in order to receive a large inheritance
left me by a distant male relative, Adolphus Simpson, Esq.
The bequest was conditioned upon my taking the name of
the testator; — the family, not the Christian name; my
Christian name is Napoleon Buonaparte — or, more
properly, these are my first and middle appellations.

I assumed the name, Simpson, with some reluctance, as in

my true patronym, Froissart, I felt a very pardonable pride;
believing that I could trace a descent from the immortal
author of the “Chronicles.” While on the subject of names,
by the by, I may mention a singular coincidence of sound
attending the names of some of my immediate
predecessors. My father was a Monsieur Froissart, of Paris.
His wife, my mother, whom he married at fifteen, was a
Mademoiselle Croissart, eldest daughter of Croissart, the
banker; whose wife, again, being only sixteen when married,
was the eldest daughter of one Victor Voissart. Monsieur
Voissart, very singularly, had wedded a lady of similar name
— a Mademoiselle Moissart. She, too, was quite a child when
married; and her mother, also, Madame Moissart, was only
fourteen when led to the altar. These early marriages are
usual in France. Here, however, are Moissart, Voissart,
Croissart, and Froissart, all in the direct line of descent. My
own name, though, as I say, became Simpson, by act of
Legislature, and with so much repugnance on my part that,
at one period, I actually hesitated about accepting the legacy
with the useless and annoying proviso attached.

As to personal endowments I am by no means deficient. On

the contrary, I believe that I am well made, and possess
what nine-tenths of the world would call a handsome face.
In height I am five feet eleven. My hair is black and curling.
My nose is sufficiently good. My eyes are large and gray; and
although, in fact, they are weak to a very inconvenient
degree, still no defect in this regard would be suspected
from their appearance. The weakness, itself, however, has
always much annoyed me, and I have resorted to every
remedy — short of wearing glasses. Being youthful and
good-looking, I naturally dislike these, and have resolutely
refused to employ them. I know nothing, indeed, which so
disfigures the countenance of a young person, or so
impresses every feature with an air of demureness, if not
altogether of sanctimoniousness and of age. An eye-glass,
on the other hand, has a savor of downright foppery and
affectation. I have hitherto managed as well as I could
without either. But something too much of these merely
personal details, which, after all, are of little importance. I
will content myself with saying, in addition, that my
temperament is sanguine, rash, ardent, enthusiastic — and
that all my life I have been a devoted admirer of the women.

One night, last winter, I entered a box at the C———

theatre, in company with a friend, Mr. Talbot. It was an
opera night, and the bills presented a very rare attraction,
so that the house was excessively crowded. We were in time,
however, to obtain the front seats which had been
preserved for us, and into which, with some little difficulty,
we elbowed our way.

For two hours, my companion, who was a musical fanatico,

gave his undivided attention to the stage; and, in the mean
time, I amused myself by observing the audience, which
consisted, in chief part, of the very élite of the city. Having
satisfied myself upon this point, I was about turning my eyes
to the prima donna, when they were arrested and riveted by
a figure in one of the private boxes which had escaped my
observation.

If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the intense

emotion with which I regarded this figure. It was that of a
female, the most exquisite I had ever beheld. The face was
so far turned towards the stage that, for some minutes, I
could not obtain a view of it — but the form was divine — no
other word can sufficiently express its magnificent
proportion, and even the term “divine” seems ridiculously
feeble as I write it.

The magic of a lovely form in woman — the necromancy of

female gracefulness — was always a power which I had
found it impossible to resist; but here was grace personified,
incarnate, the beau idéal of my wildest and most
enthusiastic visions. The figure, nearly all which the
construction of the box permitted to be seen, was somewhat
above the medium height, and nearly approached, without
positively reaching, the majestic. Its perfect fulness
and tournure were delicious. The head, of which only the
back was visible, rivalled in outline that of the Greek Psyche,
and was rather displayed than concealed by an elegant cap
of gaze aerienne, which put me in mind of the ventum
textilem of Apuleius. The right arm hung over the balustrade
of the box, and thrilled every nerve of my frame with its
exquisite symmetry. Its upper portion was draperied by one
of the loose open sleeves now in fashion. This extended but
little below the elbow. Beneath it was worn an under one of
some frail material, close fitting, and terminated by a cuff of
rich lace which fell gracefully over the top of the hand,
revealing only the delicate fingers, upon one of which
sparkled a diamond ring which I at once saw was of
extraordinary value. The admirable roundness of the wrist
was well set off by a bracelet which encircled it, and which
also was ornamented and clasped by a
magnificent aigrette of jewels — telling in words that could
not be mistaken, at once of the wealth and fastidious taste
of the wearer.

I gazed at this queenly apparition for at least half an hour,

as if I had been suddenly converted to stone; and, during
this period, I felt the full force and truth of all that has been
said or sung concerning “love at first sight.” My feelings
were totally different from any which I had hitherto
experienced, in the presence of even the most celebrated
specimens of female loveliness. An unaccountable, and what
I am compelled to consider a magnetic sympathy of soul for
soul, seemed to rivet, not only my vision, but my whole
powers of thought and feeling upon the admirable object
before me. I saw — I felt — I knew that I was deeply, madly,
irrevocably in love — and this even before seeing the face of
the person beloved. So intense, indeed, was the passion that
consumed me, that I really believe it would have received
little if any abatement had the features, yet unseen, proved
of merely ordinary character; so anomalous is the nature of
the only true love — of the love at first sight — and so little
really dependent is it upon the external conditions which
only seem to create and control it.

While I was wrapped in admiration of this lovely vision, a

sudden disturbance among the audience caused her to turn
her head partially towards me, so that I beheld the entire
profile of the face. Its beauty even exceeded my
anticipations — and yet there was something about it which
disappointed me without my being able to tell exactly what
it was. I said “disappointed,” but this is not altogether the
word. My sentiments were at once quieted and exalted. They
partook less of transport and more of calm enthusiasm — of
enthusiastic repose. This state of feeling arose, perhaps,
from the Madonna-like and matronly air of the face; and yet
I at once understood that it could not have arisen entirely
from this. There was something else — some mystery which
I could not develope — some expression about the
countenance which slightly disturbed me while it greatly
heightened my interest. In fact, I was just in that condition
of mind which prepares a young and susceptible man for
any act of extravagance. Had the lady been alone, I should
undoubtedly have entered her box and accosted her at all
hazards; but, fortunately, she was attended by two
companions — a gentleman, and a strikingly beautiful
woman, to all appearance a few years younger than herself.

I revolved in my mind a thousand schemes by which I might

obtain, hereafter, an introduction to the elder lady, or, for
the present, at all events, a more distinct view of her beauty.
I would have removed my position to one nearer her own;
but the crowded state of the theatre rendered this
impossible, and the stern decrees of Fashion, had, of late,
imperatively prohibited the use of the opera-glass, in a case
such as this, even had I been so fortunate as to have one
with me — but I had not, and was thus in despair.

At length I bethought me of applying to my companion.

“Talbot,” I said, “you have an opera-glass. Let me have it.”

“An opera-glass! no! what do you suppose I would be doing
with an opera-glass? — low! — very” Here he turned
impatiently towards the stage.

“But, Talbot,” I continued, pulling him by the shoulder,

“listen to me, will you? Do you see the stage-box? — there!
— no, the next — did you ever behold as lovely a woman?”

“She is very beautiful, no doubt,” he said.

“I wonder who she can be!”

“Why, in the name of all that is angelic, don’t you know who
she is? ‘Not to know her argues yourself unknown.’ She is
the celebrated Madame Lalande — the beauty of the day par
excellence, and the talk of the whole town. Immensely
wealthy, too — a widow, and a great match — has just
arrived from Paris.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes; I have the honor.”

“Will you introduce me?”

“Assuredly; with the greatest pleasure; when shall it be?”

“To-morrow, at one, I will call upon you at B——’s.”

“Very good; and now do hold your tongue, if you can.”

In this latter respect I was forced to take Talbot’s advice; for
he remained obstinately deaf to every further question or
suggestion, and occupied himself exclusively, for the rest of
the evening, with what was transacting upon the stage.

In the mean time I kept my eyes riveted upon Madame

Lalande, and at length had the good fortune to obtain a full
front view of her face. It was exquisitely lovely — this, of
course, my heart had told me before, even had not Talbot
fully satisfied me upon the point — but still the unintelligible
something disturbed me. I finally concluded that my senses
were impressed by a certain air of gravity, sadness, or, still
more properly, of weariness, which took something from the
youth and freshness of the countenance, only to endow it
with a seraphic tenderness and majesty, and thus, of course,
to my enthusiastic and romantic temperament, with an
interest tenfold.

While I thus feasted my eyes, I perceived, at last, to my great

trepidation, by an almost imperceptible start on the part of
the lady, that she had become suddenly aware of the
intensity of my gaze. Still, I was absolutely fascinated and
could not withdraw it, even for an instant. She turned aside
her face, and again I saw only the chiselled contour of the
back portion of the head. After some minutes, as if urged by
curiosity to see if I was still looking, she gradually brought
her face again round, and again encountered my burning
gaze. Her large dark eyes fell instantly, and a deep blush
mantled her cheek. But what was my astonishment at
perceiving that she not only did not a second time avert her
head, but that she actually took from her girdle a double
eye-glass — elevated it — adjusted it — and then regarded
me through it, intently and deliberately, for the space of
several minutes.

Had a thunderbolt fallen at my feet I could not have been

more thoroughly astounded — astounded only — not
offended or disgusted in the slightest degree; although an
action so bold, in any other woman, would have been likely
to offend or disgust. But the whole thing was done with so
much quietude — so much nonchalance — so much repose
— with so evident an air of the highest breeding, in short —
that nothing of mere effrontery was perceptible, and my
sole sentiments were those of admiration and surprise.

I observed that, upon her first elevation of the glass, she

had seemed satisfied with a momentary inspection of my
person, and was withdrawing the instrument, when, as if
struck by a second thought, she resumed it, and so
continued to regard me with fixed attention for the space of
several minutes — for five minutes, at the very least, I am
sure.

This action, so remarkable in an American theatre, attracted

very general observation, and gave rise to an indefinite
movement, or buzz, among the audience, which for a
moment filled me with confusion, but produced no visible
effect upon the countenance of Madame Lalande.

Having satisfied her curiosity — if such it was — she

dropped the glass, and quietly gave her attention again to
the stage; her profile now being turned towards myself as
before. I continued to watch her unremittingly, although I
was fully conscious of my rudeness in so doing. Presently I
saw the head slowly and slightly change its position; and
soon I became convinced that the lady, while pretending to
look at the stage, was, in fact, attentively regarding myself. It
is needless to say what effect this conduct, on the part of so
fascinating a woman, had upon my excitable mind.

Having thus scrutinized me for, perhaps, a quarter of an

hour, the fair object of my passion addressed the gentleman
who attended her, and, while she spoke, I saw distinctly, by
the glances of both, that the conversation had reference to
myself.

Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned towards

the stage, and, for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the
performances. At the expiration of this period, however, I
was thrown into an extremity of agitation by seeing her
unfold, for the second time, the eye-glass which hung at her
side, fully confront me as before, and, disregarding the
renewed buzz of the audience, survey me, from head to
foot, with the same miraculous composure which had
previously so delighted and confounded my soul.

This extraordinary behaviour, by throwing me into a perfect

fever of excitement — into an absolute delirium of love —
served rather to embolden than to disconcert me. In the
mad intensity of my devotion I forgot every thing but the
presence and the majestic loveliness of the vision which
confronted my gaze. Watching my opportunity, when I
thought the audience were fully engaged with the opera, I at
length caught the eyes of Madame Lalande, and, upon the
instant, made a slight but unmistakable bow.

She blushed very deeply — then averted her eyes — then

slowly and cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my
rash action had been noticed — then leaned over towards
the gentleman who sat by her side.

I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had

committed, and expected nothing less than instant
exposure; while a vision of pistols upon the morrow floated
rapidly and uncomfortably through my brain. I was greatly
and immediately relieved, however, when I saw the lady
merely hand the gentleman a playbill, without speaking; but
the reader may form some feeble conception of my
astonishment — of my profound amazement — my delirious
bewilderment of heart and soul — when, instantly
afterwards, having again glanced furtively around, she
allowed her bright eyes to settle fully and steadily upon my
own, and then, with a faint smile disclosing a bright line of
her pearly teeth, made two distinct, pointed and
unequivocal affirmative inclinations of the head.

It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy — upon my

transport — upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever
man was mad with excess of happiness, it was myself at that
moment. I loved. This was my first love — so I felt it to be. It
was love supreme — indescribable. It was “love at first
sight;” and, at first sight too, it had been appreciated and
— returned.
Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant?
What other construction could I possibly put upon such
conduct, on the part of a lady so beautiful — so wealthy —
evidently so accomplished — of so high breeding — of so
lofty a position in society — in every regard so entirely
respectable as I felt assured was Madame Lalande? Yes, she
loved me — she returned the enthusiasm of my love, with
an enthusiasm as blind — as uncompromising — as
uncalculating — as abandoned — and as utterly unbounded
as my own! These delicious fancies and reflections, however,
were now interrupted by the falling of the drop-curtain. The
audience arose; and the usual tumult immediately
supervened. Quitting Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to
force my way into closer proximity with Madame Lalande.
Having failed in this, on account of the crowd, I at length
gave up the chase and bent my steps homewards; consoling
myself for my disappointment in not having been able to
touch even the hem of her robe, by the reflection that I
should be introduced by Talbot, in due form, upon the
morrow.

This morrow at last came; that is to say, a day finally

dawned upon a long and weary night of impatience; and
then the hours until “one” were snail-paced, dreary and
innumerable. But even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an
end, and there came an end to this long delay. The clock
struck. As the last echo ceased, I stepped into B——’s and
inquired for Talbot.

“Out,” said the footman — Talbot’s own.

“Out!” I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces — “let
me tell you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly
impossible and impracticable; Mr. Talbot is not out. What do
you mean?”

“Nothing, sir; only Mr. Talbot is not in. That’s all. He rode
over to S——, immediately after breakfast, and left word
that he should not be in town again for a week.”

I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavored to reply,

but my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my
heel, livid with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole
tribe of the Talbots to the innermost regions of Erebus. It
was evident that my considerate friend, il fanatico, had quite
forgotten his appointment with myself — had forgotten it as
soon as it was made. At no time was he a very scrupulous
man of his word. There was no help for it; so, smothering
my vexation as well as I could, I strolled moodily up the
street, propounding futile inquiries about Madame Lalande
to every male acquaintance I met. By report she was known,
I found, to all — to many by sight — but she had been in
town only a few weeks, and there were very few, therefore,
who claimed her personal acquaintance. These few, being
still comparatively strangers, could not, or would not, take
the liberty of introducing me through the formality of a
morning call. While I stood thus, in despair, conversing with
a trio of friends upon the all absorbing subject of my heart,
it so happened that the subject itself passed by.

“As I live, there she is!” cried one.

“Surpassingly beautiful!” exclaimed a second.

“An angel upon earth!” ejaculated the third.

I looked; and, in an open carriage, which approached us,

passing slowly down the street, sate the enchanting vision of
the opera, accompanied by the younger lady who had
occupied a portion of her box.

“Her companion also wears remarkably well,” said the one of

my trio who had spoken first.

“Astonishingly,” said the second; “still quite a brilliant air;

but art will do wonders. Upon my word she looks better
than she did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;
— don’t you think so, Froissart? — Simpson, I mean.”

“Still!” said I, “and why shouldn’t she be? But compared with
her friend she is as a rushlight to the evening star — a glow-
worm to Antares.”

“Ha! ha! ha! — why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at

making discoveries — original ones, I mean.” And here we
separated, while one of the trio began humming a
gay vaudeville, of which I caught only the lines —

Ninon, Ninon, Ninon à bas —

A bas Ninon De L’Enclos!

During this little scene, however, one thing had served
greatly to console me, although it fed the passion by which I
was consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by
our group, I had observed that she recognized me; and,
more than this, she had blessed me, by the most seraphic of
all imaginable smiles, with no equivocal mark of the
recognition.

As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of

it, until such time as Talbot should think proper to return
from the country. In the mean time I perseveringly
frequented every reputable place of public amusement; and,
at length, at the theatre, where I first saw her, I had the
supreme bliss of meeting her, and of exchanging glances
with her once again. This did not occur, however, until the
lapse of a fortnight. Every day, in the interim, I had inquired
for Talbot at his hotel, and every day had been thrown into a
spasm of wrath by the everlasting “Not come home yet” of
his footman.

Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition

little short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told,
was a Parisian — had lately arrived from Paris — might she
not suddenly return? — return before Talbot came back —
and might she not be thus lost to me forever? The thought
was too terrible to bear. Since my future happiness was at
issue, I resolved to act with a manly decision. In a word,
upon the breaking up of the play, I traced the lady to her
residence, noted the address, and the next morning sent her
a full and elaborate letter, in which I poured out my whole
heart.
I spoke boldly, freely — in a word, I spoke with passion. I
concealed nothing — nothing even of my weakness. I
alluded to the romantic circumstances of our first meeting
— even to the glances which had passed between us. I went
so far as to say that I felt assured of her love; while I offered
this assurance, and my own intensity of devotion, as two
excuses for my otherwise unpardonable conduct. As a third,
I spoke of my fear that she might quit the city before I could
have the opportunity of a formal introduction. I concluded
the most wildly enthusiastic epistle ever penned, with a
frank declaration of my worldly circumstances — of my
affluence — and with an offer of my heart and of my hand.

In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what

seemed the lapse of a century it came.

Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really

received a letter from Madame Lalande — the beautiful, the
wealthy, the idolized Madame Lalande. Her eyes — her
magnificent eyes — had not belied her noble heart. Like a
true Frenchwoman, as she was, she had obeyed the frank
dictates of her reason — the generous impulses of her
nature — despising the conventional pruderies of the world.
She had not scorned my proposals. She had not sheltered
herself in silence. She had not returned my letter unopened.
She had even sent me, in reply, one penned by her own
exquisite fingers. It ran thus:

Monsieur Simpson will pardonne me for not compose de

butefulle tong of his contrée so well as might. It is only de
late dat I am arrive, and not yet have de opportunite for to
— l’etudier.

Wid dis apologie for the maniere, I vill now say dat, hélas!
Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say de
more? Hélas? am I not ready speak de too moshe?

EUGENIE LALANDE.

This noble-spirited note I kissed a million times, and

committed no doubt, on its account, a thousand other
extravagances that have now escaped my memory. Still
Talbot would not return. Alas! could he have formed even
the vaguest idea of the suffering his absence occasioned his
friend, would not his sympathizing nature have flown
immediately to my relief? Still, however, he came not. I
wrote. He replied. He was detained by urgent business —
but would shortly return. He begged me not to be impatient
— to moderate my transports — to read soothing books —
to drink nothing stronger than Hock — and to bring the
consolations of philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could
not come himself, why, in the name of every thing rational,
could he not have enclosed me a letter of presentation? I
wrote him again, entreating him to forward one forthwith.
My letter was returned by that footman, with the following
endorsement in pencil. The scoundrel had joined his master
in the country:

“Left S—— yesterday for parts unknown — did not say

where — or when be back — so thought best to return
letter, knowing your handwriting, and as how you is always,
more or less, in a hurry.

Yours, sincerely,

STUBBS.”

After this it is needless to say that I devoted to the infernal

deities both master and valet; — but there was little use in
anger, and no consolation at all in complaint.

But I had yet a resource left in my constitutional audacity.

Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make
it avail me to the end. Besides, after the correspondence
which had passed between us, what act of mere
informality could I commit, within bounds, that ought to be
regarded as indecorous by Madame Lalande? Since the
affair of the letter, I had been in the habit of watching her
house, and thus discovered that, about twilight, it was her
custom to promenade, attended only by a negro in livery, in
a public square overlooked by her windows. Here, amid the
luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a
sweet midsummer evening, I observed my opportunity and
accosted her.

The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this

with the assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance.
With a presence of mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at
once, and, to greet me, held out the most bewitchingly little
of hands. The valet at once fell into the rear; and now, with
hearts full to overflowing, we discoursed long and
unreservedly of our love.

As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than

she wrote it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In
this sweet tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to all
the impetuous enthusiasm of my nature, and, with all the
eloquence I could command, besought her consent to an
immediate marriage.

At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of

decorum — that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss
until the opportunity for bliss has forever gone by. I had
most imprudently made it known among my friends, she
observed, that I desired her acquaintance — thus that I did
not possess it — thus, again, there was no possibility of
concealing the date of our first knowledge of each other.
And then she adverted, with a blush, to the extreme recency
of this date. To wed immediately would be improper —
would be indecorous — would be outré. All this she said with
a charming air of näiveté which enraptured while it grieved
and convinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me,
laughingly, of rashness — of imprudence. She bade me
remember that I really even knew not who she was — what
were her prospects, her connexions, her standing in society.
She begged me, but with a sigh, to reconsider my proposal,
and termed my love an infatuation — a will o’ the wisp — a
fancy or fantasy of the moment — a baseless and unstable
creation rather of the imagination than of the heart. These
things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet twilight
gathered darkly and more darkly around us — and then,
with a gentle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a
single sweet instant, all the argumentative fabric she had
reared.

I replied as best I could — as only a true lover can. I spoke at

length, and perseveringly, of my devotion, of my passion —
of her exceeding beauty and of my own enthusiastic
admiration. In conclusion I dwelt, with a convincing energy,
upon the perils that encompass the course of love — that
“course of true love that never did run smooth,” and thus
deduced the manifest danger of rendering that course
unnecessarily long.

This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigor of

her determination. She relented; but there was yet an
obstacle, she said, which she felt assured I had not properly
considered. This was a delicate point — for a woman to
urge, especially so; in mentioning it, she saw that she must
make a sacrifice of her feelings; — still for me, every
sacrifice should be made. She alluded to the topic of age.
Was I aware — was I fully aware of the discrepancy between
us? That the age of the husband should surpass by a few
years — even by fifteen or twenty — the age of the wife, was
regarded by the world as admissible and indeed as even
proper; but she had always entertained the belief that the
years of the wife should never exceed in number those of
the husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural kind gave rise
too frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now she was
aware that my own age did not exceed two and twenty; and
I, on the contrary, perhaps, was not aware that the years of
my Eugénie extended very considerably beyond that sum.
About all this there was a nobility of soul — a dignity of
candor — which delighted — which enchanted me — which
eternally riveted my chains. I could scarcely restrain the
excessive transport which possessed me.

“My sweetest Eugénie,” I cried, “what is all this about which

you are discoursing? Your years surpass in some measure
my own. But what then? The customs of the world are so
many conventional follies. To those who love as ourselves,
in what respect differs a year from an hour? I am twenty-
two, you say; granted: indeed you may as well call me, at
once, twenty-three. Now you yourself, my dearest Eugénie,
can have numbered no more than — can have numbered no
more than — no more than — than — than — than —”

Here I paused for a brief instant, in the expectation that

Madame Lalande would interrupt me by supplying her true
age. But a Frenchwoman is seldom direct, and has always,
by way of answer to an embarrassing query, some little
practical reply of her own. In the present instance, Eugénie,
who, for a few moments past, had seemed to be searching
for something in her bosom, at length let fall upon the grass
a miniature, which I immediately picked up and presented.

“Keep it,” she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles.
“Keep it for my sake — for the sake of her whom it too
flatteringly represents. Besides, upon the back of the
trinket, you may discover, perhaps, the very information you
seem to desire. It is now, to be sure, growing rather dark —
but you can examine it at your leisure, in the morning. In the
mean time, you shall be my escort home to-night. My
friends, here, are about holding a little musical levée. I can
promise you, too, some good singing. We French are not
nearly so punctilious as you Americans, and I shall have no
difficulty in smuggling you in, in the character of an old
acquaintance.”

With this, she took my arm and I attended her home. The
mansion was quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in
good taste. Of this latter point, however, I am scarcely
qualified to judge; for it was just dark as we arrived; and, in
American mansions of the better sort, lights seldom, during
the heat of summer, make their appearance at this the most
pleasant period of the day. In about an hour after my
arrival, to be sure, a single shaded solar lamp was lit in the
principal drawing-room; and this apartment, I could thus
see, was arranged with unusual good taste and even
splendor; but two other rooms of the suite, and in which the
company chiefly assembled, remained, during the whole
evening, in a very agreeable shadow. This is a well conceived
custom, giving the party at least a choice of light or shade,
and one which our friends over the water could not do
better than immediately adopt.

The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most

delicious of my life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the
musical abilities of her friends; and the singing I here heard
I had never heard excelled in any private circle out of
Vienna. The instrumental performers were many and of
superior talents. The vocalists were chiefly ladies, and no
individual sang less than well. At length, upon a peremptory
call for “Madame Lalande,” she arose at once, without
affectation or demur, from the chaise longue upon which she
had sate by my side, and, accompanied by one or two
gentlemen and her female friend of the opera, repaired to
the piano in the main drawing-room. I would have escorted
her myself; but felt that, under the peculiar circumstances of
my introduction to the house, I had better remain
unobserved where I was. I was thus deprived of the pleasure
of seeing, although not of hearing her sing.

The impression she produced upon the company seemed

electrical — but the effect upon myself was something even
more. I know not how adequately to describe it. It arose, in
part, no doubt, from the sentiment of love with which I was
imbued; but chiefly from my conviction of the extreme
sensibility of the singer. It is beyond the reach of art to
endow either air or recitative with more
impassioned expression than was hers. Her utterance of the
romance in Otello — the tone with which she gave the words
“Sul mio sasso,” in the Capuletti — are ringing in my memory
yet. Her lower tones were absolutely miraculous. Her voice
embraced three complete octaves, extending from the
contralto D to the D upper soprano, and, though sufficiently
powerful to have filled the San Carlos, executed, with the
minutest precision, every difficulty of vocal composition —
ascending and descending scales, cadences, or fiorituri. In
the finale of the Somnambula, she brought about a most
remarkable effect at the words —

Ah! non guinge uman pensiero

Al contento ond ‘io son piena.

Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original
phrase of Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor
G, when, by a rapid transition, she struck the G above the
treble stave, springing over an interval of two octaves.

Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal

execution, she resumed her seat by my side; when I
expressed to her, in terms of the deepest enthusiasm, my
delight at her performance. Of my surprise I said nothing —
and yet was I most unfeignedly surprised; for a certain
feebleness, or rather a certain tremulous indecision of voice
in ordinary conversation, had prepared me to anticipate
that, in singing, she would not acquit herself with any
remarkable ability.

Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and

totally unreserved. She made me relate many of the earlier
passages of my life, and listened, with breathless attention,
to every word of the narrative. I concealed nothing — I felt
that I had a right to conceal nothing from her confiding
affection. Encouraged by her candor upon the delicate point
of her age, I entered, with perfect frankness, not only into a
detail of my many minor vices, but made full confession of
those moral and even of those physical infirmities, the
disclosure of which, in demanding so much higher a degree
of courage, is so much surer an evidence of love. I touched
upon my college indiscretions — upon my extravagances —
upon my carousals — upon my debts — upon my flirtations.
I even went so far as to speak of a slightly hectic cough with
which, at one time, I had been troubled — of a chronic
rheumatism — of a twinge of hereditary gout — and, in
conclusion, of the disagreeable and inconvenient, but
hitherto carefully concealed, weakness of my eyes.

“Upon this latter point,” said Madame Lalande, laughingly,

“you have been surely injudicious in coming to confession;
for, without the confession, I take it for granted that no one
would have accused you of the crime. By the by,” she
continued, “have you any recollection” — and here I fancied
that a blush, even through the gloom of the apartment,
became distinctly visible upon her cheek — “have you any
recollection, mon cher ami, of this little ocular assistant
which now depends from my neck?”

As she spoke she twirled in her fingers the identical double

eye-glass, which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at
the opera.

“Full well — alas! too well do I remember it,” I exclaimed,

pressing passionately the delicate hand which offered the
glasses for my inspection. They formed a complex and
magnificent toy, richly chased and fillagreed, and gleaming
with jewels, which, even in the deficient light, I could not
help perceiving were of high value.

“Eh bien! mon ami,” she resumed with a

certain empressement of manner that rather surprised me —
“Eh bien, mon ami, you have earnestly besought of me a
favor which you have been pleased to denominate priceless.
You have demanded of me my hand upon the morrow.
Should I yield to your entreaties — and, I may add, to the
pleadings of my own bosom — would I not be entitled to
demand of you a very — a very little boon in return?”

“Name it!” I exclaimed, with an energy that had nearly drawn

upon us the observation of the company, and restrained by
their presence alone from throwing myself impetuously at
her feet. “Name it, my beloved, my Eugénie, my own! —
name it! — but, alas! it is already yielded ere named.”

“You shall conquer then, mon ami,” said she, “for the sake of
the Eugénie whom you love, this little weakness which you
have at last confessed — this weakness more moral than
physical — and which, let me assure you, is so unbecoming
the nobility of your real nature — so inconsistent with the
candor of your usual character — and which, if permitted
farther control, will assuredly involve you, sooner or later, in
some very disagreeable scrape. You shall conquer, for my
sake, this affectation which leads you, as you yourself
acknowledge, to the tacit or implied denial of your infirmity
of vision. For, this infirmity you virtually deny, in refusing to
employ the customary means for its relief. You will
understand me to say, then, that I wish you to wear
spectacles: — ah, hush! — you have already consented to
wear them, for my sake. You shall accept the little toy which I
now hold in my hand, and which, though admirable as an
aid to vision, is really of no very immense value as a gem.
You perceive that, by a trifling modification thus — or thus
— it can be adapted to the eyes in the form of spectacles, or
worn in the waistcoat pocket as an eye-glass. It is in the
former mode, however, and habitually, that you have
already consented to wear it for my sake.”
This request — must I confess it? — confused me in no little
degree. But the condition with which it was coupled
rendered hesitation, of course, a matter altogether out of
the question.

“It is done!” I cried, with all the enthusiasm I could muster at

the moment. “It is done — it is most cheerfully agreed. I
sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this
dear eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my heart; but, with
the earliest dawn of that morning which gives me the
privilege of calling you wife, I will place it upon my — upon
my nose — and there wear it, ever afterwards, in the less
romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the more
serviceable form which you desire.”

Our conversation now turned upon the details of our

arrangement for the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my
betrothed, had just arrived in town. I was to see him at
once, and procure a carriage. The soirée would scarcely
break up before two; and by this hour the vehicle was to be
at the door; when, in the confusion occasioned by the
departure of the company, Madame L. could easily enter it
unobserved. We were then to call at the house of a
clergyman who would be in waiting; there be married, drop
Talbot, and proceed on a short tour to the East, leaving the
fashionable world at home to make whatever comments
upon the matter it thought best.

Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went

in search of Talbot, but, on the way, I could not refrain from
stepping into a hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the
miniature; and this I did by the powerful aid of the glasses.
The countenance was a surpassingly beautiful one! Those
large luminous eyes! — that proud Grecian nose! — those
dark luxuriant curls! — “ah!” said I, exultingly to myself, “this
is indeed the speaking image of my beloved!” I turned the
reverse, and discovered the words — “Eugénie Lalande —
aged twenty-seven years and seven months.”

I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint

him with my good fortune. He professed excessive
astonishment, of course, but congratulated me most
cordially, and proffered every assistance in his power. In a
word, we carried out our arrangement to the letter; and, at
two in the morning, just ten minutes after the ceremony, I
found myself in a close carriage with Madame Lalande —
with Mrs. Simpson, I should say — and driving at a great rate
out of town, in a direction Northeast and by North-half-
North.

It had been determined for us, by Talbot, that, as we were to

be up all night, we should make our first stop at C——, a
village about twenty miles from the city, and there get an
early breakfast, and some repose, before proceeding upon
our route. At four precisely, therefore, the carriage drew up
at the door of the principal inn. I handed my adored wife out
and ordered breakfast forthwith. In the mean time we were
shown into a small parlor, and sate down.

It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I gazed,

enraptured, at the angel by my side, the singular idea came,
all at once, into my head, that this was really the very first
moment, since my acquaintance with the celebrated
loveliness of Madame Lalande, that I had enjoyed a near
inspection of that loveliness by daylight at all.

“And now, mon ami,” said she, taking my hand, and so

interrupting this train of reflection, “and now, mon cher ami,
since we are indissolubly one — since I have yielded to your
passionate entreaties, and performed my portion of our
agreement — I presume you have not forgotten that you
also have a little favor to bestow — a little promise which it
is your intention to keep. Ah! — let me see! Let me
remember! Yes; full easily do I call to mind the precise
words of the dear promise you made to Eugénie last night.
Listen! You spoke thus: ‘It is done! — it is most cheerfully
agreed! I sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I
wear this dear eye-glass as an eye-glass, and upon my heart;
but, with the earliest dawn of that morning which gives me
the privilege of calling you wife, I will place it upon my —
upon my nose — and there wear it, ever afterwards, in the
less romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the
more serviceable form which you desire.’ These were the
exact words, my beloved husband, were they not?”

“They were,” I said; “you have an excellent memory; and,

assuredly, my beautiful Eugénie, there is no disposition on
my part to evade the performance of the trivial promise they
imply. See! Behold! They are becoming, rather, are they
not?” And here, having arranged the glasses in the ordinary
form of spectacles, I applied them gingerly in their proper
position; while Madame Simpson, adjusting her cap, and
folding her arms, sat bolt upright in her chair, in a
somewhat stiff and prim, and indeed in a somewhat
undignified position.

“Goodness gracious me!” I exclaimed, almost at the very

instant that the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my
nose — “My! goodness, gracious me! — why what can be the
matter with these glasses?” and, taking them quickly off, I
wiped them carefully with a silk handkerchief and adjusted
them again.

But if, in the first instance, there had occurred something

which occasioned me surprise, in the second, this surprise
became elevated into astonishment; and this astonishment
was profound — was extreme — indeed, I may say it was
horrific. What, in the name of everything hideous, did this
mean? Could I believe my eyes? — could I? — that was the
question. Was that — was that — was that rouge? And were
those — were those — were those wrinkles, upon the visage
of Eugénie Lalande? And oh, Jupiter! and every one of the
gods and goddesses, little and big! — what — what — what
— what had become of her teeth? I dashed the spectacles
violently to the ground, and, leaping to my feet, stood erect
in the middle of the floor, confronting Mrs. Simpson, with
my arms set a-kimbo, and grinning and foaming, but, at the
same time, utterly speechless and helpless with terror and
with rage.

Now I have already said that Madame Eugénie Lalande —

that is to say, Simpson — spoke the English language but
very little better than she wrote it; and for this reason she
very properly never attempted to speak it upon ordinary
occasions. But rage will carry a lady to any extreme; and, in
the present case, it carried Mrs. Simpson to the very
extraordinary extreme of attempting to hold a conversation
in a tongue that she did not altogether understand.

“Vell, Monsieur,” said she, after surveying me, in great

apparent astonishment, for some moments — “Vell,
Monsieur! — and vat den? — vat de matter now? Is it de
dance of de Saint Vitusse dat you ave? If not like me, vat for
vy buy de pig in de poke?”

“You wretch!” said I, catching my breath — “you — you —

you villainous old hag!”

“Ag? — ole? — me not so ver ole, after all! me not one single
day more dan de eighty-doo.”

“Eighty-two!” I ejaculated, staggering to the wall — “eighty-

two hundred thousand of she baboons! The miniature said
twenty-seven years and seven months!”

“To be sure! — dat is so! — ver true! but den de portraite

has been take for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go marry my
segonde usbande, Monsieur Lalande, at dat time I had de
portraite take for my daughter by my first usbande,
Monsieur Moissart.”

“Moissart!” said I.
“Yes, Moissart, Moissart;” said she, mimicking my
pronunciation, which, to speak the truth, was none of the
best; “and vat den? Vat you know bout de Moissart?”

“Nothing, you old fright! — I know nothing about him at all;

— only I had an ancestor of that name, once upon a time.”

“Dat name! and vat you ave for say to dat name? ‘T is
ver goot name; and so is Voissart — dat is ver goot name,
too. My daughter, Mademoiselle Moissart, she marry von
Monsieur Voissart; and de names is bote ver respectable
name.”

“Moissart!” I exclaimed, “and Voissart! why what is it you

mean?”

“Vat I mean? — I mean Moissart and Voissart; and, for de

matter of dat, I mean Croissart and Froisart, too, if I only
tink proper to mean it. My daughter’s daughter,
Mademoiselle Voissart, she marry von Monsieur Croissart,
and, den agin, my daughter’s grande daughter,
Mademoiselle Croissart, she marry von Monsieur Froissart;
and I suppose you say dat dat is not von ver respectable
name.”

“Froissart!” said I, beginning to faint, “why surely you don’t

say Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart!”

“Yes,” she replied, leaning fully back in her chair, and

stretching out her lower limbs at great length; “yes,
Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart. But
Monsieur Froissart, he vas von ver big vat you call fool — he
vas von ver great big donce like yourself — for he lef la belle
France for come to dis stupide Amerique — and ven he get
here he went and ave von ver stupide, von ver, ver stupide
son, so I hear, dough I not yet ave ad de plaisir to meet wid
him — neither me nor my companion, de Madame Stephanie
Lalande. He is name de Napoleon Buonaparte Froissart, and
I suppose you say dat dat, too, is not von ver respectable
name.”

Either the length or the nature of this speech, had the effect
of working up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraordinary
passion indeed; and as she made an end of it, with great
labor, she jumped up from her chair like somebody
bewitched, dropping upon the floor an entire universe of
bustle as she jumped. Once upon her feet, she gnashed her
gums, brandished her arms, rolled up her sleeves, shook her
fist in my face, and concluded the performance by tearing
the cap from her head, and with it an immense wig of the
most valuable and beautiful black hair, the whole of which
she dashed upon the ground with a yell, and there trampled
and danced a fandango upon it, in an absolute ecstasy and
agony of rage.

Meantime I sank aghast into the chair which she vacated.

“Moissart and Voissart!” I repeated, thoughtfully, as she cut
one of her pigeon-wings, and “Croissart and Froissart!” as
she completed another — “Moissart and Voissart and
Croissart and Napoleon Buonaparte Froissart! — why, you
ineffable old serpent, that’s me — that’s me — d’ye hear?
that’s me” — here I screamed at the top of my voice —
“that’s me-e-e! I am Napoleon Buonaparte Froissart! and if I
haven’t married my great, great, grandmother, I wish I may
be everlastingly confounded!”

Madame Eugénie Lalande, quasi Simpson — formerly

Moissart — was, in sober fact, my great, great, grandmother.
In her youth, she had been beautiful, and, even at eighty-
two, retained the majestic height, the sculptural contour of
head, the fine eyes and the Grecian nose of her girlhood. By
the aid of these, of pearl-powder, of rouge, of false hair,
false teeth, and false tournure, as well as of the most skilful
modistes of Paris, she contrived to hold a respectable
footing among the beauties un peu passées of the French
metropolis. In this respect, indeed, she might have been
regarded as little less than the equal of the celebrated
Ninon De L’Enclos.

She was immensely wealthy, and, being left, for the second
time, a widow without children, she bethought herself of my
existence in America, and, for the purpose of making me her
heir, paid a visit to the United States, in company with a
distant and exceedingly lovely relative of her second
husband’s — a Madame Stephanie Lalande.

At the opera, my great, great, grandmother’s attention was

arrested by my notice; and, upon surveying me through her
eye-glass, she was struck with a certain family resemblance
to herself. Thus interested, and knowing that the heir she
sought was actually in the city, she made inquiries of her
party respecting me. The gentleman who attended her knew
my person, and told her who I was. The information thus
obtained induced her to renew her scrutiny; and this
scrutiny it was, which so emboldened me that I behaved in
the absurd manner already detailed. She returned my bow,
however, under the impression that, by some odd accident, I
had discovered her identity. When, deceived by my
weakness of vision, and the arts of the toilet, in respect to
the age and charms of the strange lady, I demanded so
enthusiastically of Talbot who she was, he concluded that I
meant the younger beauty, as a matter of course, and so
informed me, with perfect truth, that she was “the
celebrated widow, Madame Lalande.”

In the street, next morning, my great, great, grandmother

encountered Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance; and the
conversation, very naturally turned upon myself. My
deficiencies of vision were then explained; for these were
notorious, although I was entirely ignorant of their
notoriety; and my good old relative discovered, much to her
chagrin, that she had been deceived in supposing me aware
of her identity, and that I had been merely making a fool of
myself, in making open love, in a theatre, to an old woman
unknown. By way of punishing me for this imprudence, she
concocted with Talbot a plot. He purposely kept out of my
way, to avoid giving me the introduction. My street inquiries
about “the lovely widow, Madame Lalande,” were supposed
to refer to the younger lady, of course; and thus the
conversation with the three gentlemen whom I encountered
shortly after leaving Talbot’s hotel, will be easily explained,
as also their allusion to Ninon De L’Enclos. I had no
opportunity of seeing Madame Lalande closely during
daylight; and, at her musical soirée, my silly weakness in
refusing the aid of glasses, effectually prevented me from
making a discovery of her age. When “Madame Lalande” was
called upon to sing, the younger lady was intended; and it
was she who arose to obey the call; my great, great,
grandmother, to further the deception, arising at the same
moment, and accompanying her to the piano in the main
drawing-room. Had I decided upon escorting her thither, it
had been her design to suggest the propriety of my
remaining where I was, but my own prudential views
rendered this unnecessary. The songs which I so much
admired, and which so confirmed my impressions of the
youth of my mistress, were executed by Madame Stephanie
Lalande. The eye-glass was presented by way of adding a
reproof to the hoax — a sting to the epigram of the
deception. Its presentation afforded an opportunity for the
lecture upon affectation with which I was so especially
edified. It is almost superfluous to add that the glasses of
the instrument, as worn by the old lady, had been
exchanged by her for a pair better adapted to my years.
They suited me, in fact, to a T.

The clergyman, who merely pretended to tie the fatal knot,

was a boon companion of Talbot’s and no priest. He was an
excellent “whip,” however; and, having donned his cassock
to put on a great coat, he drove the hack which conveyed
the “happy couple” out of town. Talbot took a seat at his
side. The two scoundrels were thus “in at the death,” and,
through a half open window of the back parlor of the inn,
amused themselves in grinning at the dénouement of the
drama. I believe I shall be forced to call them both out.
Nevertheless, I am not the husband of my great, great,
grandmother; and this is a reflection which affords me
infinite relief; — but I am the husband of Madame Lalande
— of Madame Stephanie Lalande — with whom my good old
relative, besides making me her sole heir when she dies — if
she ever does — has been at the trouble of concocting me a
match. In conclusion: I am done forever with billets-doux,
and am never to be met without SPECTACLES.