But the bravest stream that ever was born on a mountain side has its shoals and quicksands, and far out in the sounding sea rise slowly coral reefs. Now, if on every green, growing isle newly rising to the sunlight, the glorious jealousy of some Jove should toss a Vulcan, how would our Venuses be suddenly charmed by the beauties of a South Sea Scheme! how would their tiny shallops dot the curling waves, and what new flowers would spring upon the smiling shores to greet their rosy feet! 'And why a Vulcan?' says the elegant Narcissus Hare, with a shiver; 'a great, grim, solemn, limping monster, that Brummel would have spurned in disgust! And he to win our ladies with their delicate loveliness! Faugh, sir! are you a Cyclops yourself?' Alas! my Tinkler, do you remember that Salmasius began his vituperations of Milton with gratuitous speculations upon his supposed ugliness, and that great was his grief when he was assured that he contended with an ideal of beauty. Have you forgotten that the Antinoeus won the distinguished favor of his merry, courteous queen Christina, and that the satirist and man of 'taste' died of obscurity in a year? Beware, my little Narcissus, lest the next autumn flowers bloom above your grave in Greenwood, and your fair Luline be accepting bouquets and _bonbons_ from me. You, Roland, are pale from the very contemplation of such a catastrophe, such an unprecedented _haegira_ of dames! It is as if from every gay watering place, some softly tinkling bell should summon the fair mermaids. Beplaided and betrowsered, with their little gypsy hats, would they float out beyond the breakers, waving aside with farewell, airy kisses, the patent life boats and the magical preservers, and pressing on, like Gebers, with their rosy faces and great, hopeful eyes ever laughingly, merrily turned to the golden east--their _Morgen Land_! Ah! but--have we no Vulcans among us? 'Fair Bertha, Beatrice, Alys,' come out of the Christmas ecstatics of the dear old year that has just streamed out like a meteor among the stars;--_you_ know, fair ones, that the stars are only years, and the planets grave old centuries; lock away the jewels and the lace sets--charming, I know--the glove boxes and the statuettes, the cream-leaved books, and the fragile, graceful _babioles_; pull up the cushions, and group your bright selves around the register--it's very cold to-day, you roses--and let us settle the question--have we a Vulcan among us?