the dais reserved for distinguished guests, faced the
crowd in prideful expectancy that all his friends would seek to know
his mother. She had entered the hall at eight o'clock, and for two
hours held court, the most distinguished people there pressing eagerly
forward to be presented to her. . . . From her slightly elevated
position, she could, without rising, overlook the floor, and watched
with quiet pleasure the dancers, among them the kingly figure of the
Commander-in-Chief, who led a Fredericksburg matron through a minuet.

At ten o'clock, she signed to him to approach, and rose to take his
arm, saying in her clear soft voice, "Come, George, it is time for old
folks to be at home." Smiling a good-night to all, she walked down the
room, as erect in form and as steady in gait as any dancer there.

One of the French officers exclaimed aloud, as she disappeared:

"If such are the matrons of America, she may well boast of illustrious
sons!" . . . . .

Lafayette's report of his interview to his friends at Mt. Vernon was:
"I have seen the only Roman matron living at this day!"

FOOTNOTE:

[35] By permission of author and publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
Boston.

AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.

~1835=----.~

MRS. WILSON was born at Columbus, Georgia, but early removed to
Mobile, Alabama. Her first novel was "Inez: a Tale of the Alamo,"
published in 1855. She was married to Mr. L. M. Wilson of Mobile in
1868, and they had a delightful suburban home at Spring Hill. Since
Mr. Wilson's death, she resides in Mobile. Her novels, especially "St.
Elmo," have made a great sensation in the reading world: they evince
great ability and learning. See Miss Rutherford's "American Authors."

WORKS.

Inez: a Tale of the Alamo.
Macaria.
Vashti.
At the Mercy of Tiberius.
Beulah.
St. Elmo.
Infelice.

"_St. Elmo_ contains a description of that marvel of oriental
architecture, the Taj Mahal at Agra in India,--a marble tomb erected
to perpetuate the name of Noormahal, whom Tom Moore has immortalized
in his 'Lalla Rookh.' A recent traveller visiting Agra in 1891 writes
that he was surprised to find a Parsee boy almost in the shadow of the
Taj Mahal reading a copy of the London edition of Mrs. Wilson's
_Vashti_. . . . Her style has been severely criticised as pedantic,
but certainly this charge may with equal justice be brought against
George Meredith, Bulwer, and George Eliot, and it is well