Natchez, it will be remembered, is on the eastern side of the Mississippi, and on one of the bends of that magnificent river, withdrawn a little from its banks, and sloping handsomely down to its flowing waters. Above and below the immediate town, are many eligible and pleasant sites for country seats, should that part of the country ever possess wealth and taste enough, to think of building them. But at the period of my story, there was nothing of the kind. Dark pine groves, and impenetrable thicks of beech and sycamore, with their lofty branches intertwined in many a wild convolution, made a high and thick canopy for the wearied traveler; while the beautiful flowers of the region, among which was the splendid magnolia, gave the forest, the freshness and fragrance of a lady’s flower garden. From morn till night, the woods were alive with music, and over all, was that sweet harmonist of nature, the American mocking-bird, with its rising and falling, ever-varying modulations—now screaming like the startled vulture of the cliffs—and now sinking away with a witching alternation of soft, plaintive, heart-moving minstrelsy, sufficient, it would seem, to charm rocks and forest trees,—He who built Thebes, would have thrown away his instrument in despair, could he have heard but one note of this wild-wood melodist. I said there were no country seats there. I mistake. There was one bright spot, about twelve miles above Natchez, which, though it had small pretensions to the surpassing beauty of some of the fine superstructures on these northern rivers; nevertheless, for that day and place, it was, certainly, an elegant and hospitable mansion. That it was hospitable, many a man, yet living, can testify—for many were the travelers, visiting in that region, who spent days there, and enjoyed the rich hospitality and urbane attentions of its warm-souled, accomplished proprietor. This man, Charles Glenning, was certainly as gentlemanly a person as I ever knew. He was educated at the north—had spent his early days there—but for the sake of business, to which he betook him on leaving College, he went to the south, carrying with him as bright a bud of feminine loveliness, as ever God suffered to bloom in this uncongenial, ugly world. I cannot paint her—there’s no telling how beautiful she was. It wasn’t beauty of feature; neither was it beauty of mind—and yet, it was beauty of a high and ardent cast, which made you feel you were in the presence of a spirit, the moment you came near her. Forehead white as death—yet, neither intellectual nor otherwise,—soft blue eyes, that made you think they were little pieces cut out of the bluest summer sky,—complexion like ivory,—lips like the finest evening tints, in the back ground of one of Claude Lorraine’s landscapes,—and a figure as faultless as ever was hewn from the Pentelican marble, or set a painter a dreaming over his easel.—Imagine these, and you may get a glimpse of the laughing, bright-eyed Isabel Glenning.