The major was too proud of his maternal descent to abase himself by servility. He sturdily turned his back on the Tuileries, and concentrated all his efforts toward reëstablishing himself in his farm at Phalsbourg. He partly succeeded in his object, but when he had paid the advocates, the solicitors, the bailiffs, and the court fees; when he had discharged the debts he owed to some old friends, he found himself the possessor of 800 francs a year and an extremely philosophical wardrobe. He did not complain, but resigned himself to the dictates of necessity; he reduced his desires to the compass of his means, his ambition vanished, his contentment increased, and the man of the American forests, the colonist, reappeared more worthy of esteem in the midst of poverty than when he was rich and powerful in those vast solitudes.
And this brings us back, dear reader, to the little bench so prettily hidden in the clustering jasmine and roses, last retreat, last enjoyment of the cidevant musqueteer, who ruined himself twice and became a sage because Mademoiselle Guimard dropped her handkerchief.
Among the many beautiful country-seats which have, of late years, sprung up around us, there is no one perhaps that in architectural design, in compactness and elegance of finish, surpasses “Homewood,” the residence of the Hon. William Wilkins. Throughout all its parts, and in all its arrangements, it presents a chaste and highly tasteful appearance.
The name adopted is quite appropriate. The building stands in the centre of a nearly circular area, the circumference of which is bounded for acres back by the tall oaks of the primeval forest. In the summer, when the grass waves and the flowers unfold their fragrant treasures, this circular area presents to the eye the aspect of an island of verdure surrounded by the dim old trees. When evening approaches and the sun pours his slanting beams through the luxuriant foliage, bathing the boughs in liquid gold, no place can be more delightful than the “columned porch” at Homewood. The warbling of the birds, the fragrance of manifold flowers, the lowing of distant herds, the gentle rustling of the branches moved by the passing breeze, the shouts of the distant harvestmen preparing to leave, with the sun’s decline, their daily toil—all combine to lull the heart and to enchant the senses.