curious is the gaslighted atmosphere in which
these Fairies dwell!—through all the narrow
ways of such an existence, Miss Fairy never
relinquishes the belief that that incorrigable old
Fairy, the father, is a wonderful man! She is
immovably convinced that nobody ever can,
or ever could, approach him in Rolla. She
has grown up in this conviction, will never
correct it, will die in it. If, through any
wonderful turn of fortune, she were to arrive
at the emolument and dignity of a Free
Benefit to-morrow, she would "put up" old
Fairy, red nosed, stammering and imbecile—
with delirium tremens shaking his very buttons
off—as the noble Peruvian, and would play
Cora herself, with a profound belief in his
taking the town by storm at last.

           THE HILL OF GOLD.

THE alchemists tried hard to discover some
form of aurum potabile, or drinkable gold,
which, when at last brewed in correct and
perfect style, should endow the happy and
learned drinker with unfading youth and
interminable length of days. They failed, we
may suppose; because, although rarely, from
time to time, one or two reputed evergreen
immortals have strutted on the stage whereon
all men and women are the players, they,
like the rest, have made their exit. Themselves,
as well as the scenes, have been shifted.
We see them not amongst us, to testify to the
potency of their golden potion, in spite of the
daily miracles wrought by hair dyes,
supplemental teeth, and Tyrian bloom.

It has been reserved for myself to make
the grand discovery which past ages have
been unable to achieve. I—not by myself—
I, have penetrated to the source whence issue
inexhaustible fountains of potable gold. I
have drunk my fill without stint or limit, and
I feel the invigorating beverage tingling in
every fibre, imparting strength to every
muscle, and even adding energy to every
thought. Not to be selfish and miserly, by
concealing the whereabouts of this liquid
treasure, the true golden beverage is to be
had at springs whose names are Vollenay,
Vougeot, Beaune, Nuits, and many others,
all situated in the eastern region of France,
midway between the Mediterranean and the
English Channel. But, to cut matters short
and to end all mystery, I will precede any
further explanation by a short lecture on
Gallic geography.

France, then, is historically associated in
our minds with the old division into provinces.
We can never forget such memorable
words as Champagne, Burgundy, Languedoc.
These names have disappeared from
modern maps, and are replaced by others.
It is exactly as if all our counties were swept
clean away, and Great Britain were redistributed
into more equal portions, with quite
new denominations attached to them. France
actually and at present is, by decree of the
National Assembly, partitioned into five
regions, very easy to remember in respect to
their relative positions—namely, north, south,
east, west, and central—which again are
unequally divided into eighty-six departments,
including Corsica, ceded to France by the
republic of Genoa so lately as seventeen
hundred and sixty-eight, in consideration of a
money payment. This insular department of
course belongs to the south region. As to the
order in which the departments usually
range, some geographers begin at the bottom
of the map, making Corsica number one;
others at the top, placing the Department du
Nord (in which are the towns of Dunkerque,
Lille, and Valenciennes) at the head of the list.

The names by which the different departments
are distinguished, have been conferred
upon them for different reasons. Many are
known by the name of the principal river or
rivers which run through them; as the
Departments de la Sarthe, de l'Allier, de Loir-
et-Cher, and de la Seine-Inférieure. Others
derive their titles from the mountains to
which they are contiguous; as the Departments
du Jura, des Vosges, des Basses-Alpes,
and des Hautes-Pyrénées. Some maritime
departments bring with them an allusion to
the seas which wash their shores; as those of
de la Manche, du Pas-de-Calais, and des
Côtes-du-Nord; while remarkable natural
peculiarities of position or constitution,
unusual and celebrated points of topography,
claim their right to be commemorated in the
household words of the locality. Hence we
have the Departments du Puy-de-Dôme, from
the conical colossus who rears his head above
the other Puys, or volcanic hills, which have
been upraised by subterranean fires in the
neighbourhood of Clermont; des Landes,
from the vast sandy plains which tire the
eye with little relief, except from ponds and
marshes, and over which the wild inhabitants
stride rapidly on stilts; du Finisterre, from
the Land's End of France; and du Calvados,
from a dangerous chain of rocks along the
coast, six leagues in length, extending from
the mouth of the Vire to that of the Orne,
and which owe their own denomination to
the shipwreck of a vessel of that name
belonging to the squadron which Philip the
Second dispatched for England in fifteen
hundred and eighty-eight. And lastly, as a
crowning example, there is a bit cut out of
Burgundy, the Department de la Côte-d'Or,
or the Hill of Gold.

Gold is really found, then, in that precious
hill? It is another Australia?—a Californian
mountain? Oh no! Something far better
than that. Its gold, I repeat, is drinkable;
producing, when used with due discretion, if
not exactly eternal youth, the nearest
approach to it which human wit has as yet
discovered,—the most perennial restorative
allowed to man according to the laws imposed
on nature by the Almighty Controller and
Provider of all things.