was, that I might have
been mistaken. Perhaps, after all, it was _not_ Aurore!

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A SCIENTIFIC JULEP.

To drown care and sorrow men drink. The spirit of wine freely quaffed
will master either bodily pain or mental suffering--for a time. There
is no form of the one or phase of the other so difficult to subdue as
the pang of jealousy. Wine must be deeply quaffed before that corroding
poison can be washed free from the heart.

But there is a partial relief in the wine-cup, and I sought it. I knew
it to be only temporary, and that the sorrow would soon return. But
even so--even a short respite was to be desired. I could bear my
thoughts no longer.

I am not brave in bearing pain. I have more than once intoxicated
myself to deaden the pitiful pain of a toothache. By the same means I
resolved to relieve the dire aching of my heart.

The spirit of wine was nigh at hand, and might be imbibed in many forms.

In one corner of the "smoking-saloon" was the "bar," with its elegant
adornments--its rows of decanters and bottles, with silver stoppers and
labels its glasses, and lemons, and sugar-crushers--its bouquet of
aromatic mint and fragrant pines--its bunches of straw tubes for
"sucking" the "mint-julep," the "sherry-cobbler," or the "claret
sangaree."

In the midst of this _entourage_ stood the "bar-keeper," and in this
individual do not picture to yourself some seedy personage of the waiter
class, with bloodless cheeks and clammy skin, such as those
monstrosities of an English hotel who give you a very _degout_ for your
dinner. On the contrary, behold an _elegant_ of latest fashion--that
is, the fashion of his country and class, the men of the river. He
wears neither coat nor vest while in the exercise of his office, but his
shirt will merit an observation. It is of the finest fabric of the
Irish loom--too fine to be worn by those who have woven it--and no Bond
Street furnishing-house could equal its "make up."

Gold buttons glance at the sleeves, and diamonds sparkle amid the
profuse ruffles on the bosom. The collar is turned down over a black
silk riband, knotted _a la Byron_; but a tropic sun has more to do with
this fashion than any desire to imitate the sailor-poet. Over this
shirt stretch silk braces elaborately needle-worked, and still further
adorned by buckles of pure gold. A hat of the costly grass from the
shores of the South Sea crowns his well-oiled locks, and thus y