University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
HOW MR. JACK HAMILTON, FOXHUNTER, AND BACHELOR, ASPIRED
TO THE HONORS OF A WIG, A SUIT OF BLACK, AND A GOLD-HEADED
CANE.

The gentleman was our old acquaintance, honest Jack Hamilton:—for
by this honorable prefix was the worthy fellow
now almost universally known.

Mr. Hamilton had changed very little—not at all we
might venture to say. He had reached that middle ground
of human life, extending from thirty-five to forty, when the
mental and physical organization of man seems to stand still,
neither increasing nor decreasing in strength, bloom, or grace:
—when nature seems to pause upon the summit of those
piled up years, before descending slowly into the vale of age.
When a man has arrived at this point in his pilgrimage toward
the other world, his eye embraces a more ample horizon,
than at any former or later period. On one side lies
the brilliant land of youth and childhood, with its murmuring
streams filling the fields with music, its myriads of delicious
flowers, burdening the faint pure air with perfume;—
and by these streams so bright and sparkling, among these
flowers whose odor haunts the memory, glide forms which
filled with joy, and freshness, and a tender bloom, the whole
happy period of youth. What joy, what freshness, in the
bright eye and lip of the boy's sweetheart!—what a tender
bloom upon the cheek, which blushed with delight when
the loved one approached! And farther still into that past,
the man's eye plunges and finds again the all-embracing
mother's love, the father's tenderness—those things which
words fail to utter, leaving the heart to speak!

And on the other side the now mature man sees stretching

the cool and shady path of age, evironed with a thousand
quiet joys, which, if they have not all the light illusion
and romance of youth, to gild them, still are quite as genuine
as the rapturous pleasures of that brilliant golden youth—
the sunset almost shames the dawn! And if at the end of
that quiet path, there stands a white stone—and if to reach
that bourne the foot must sometimes tread on thorns, still
upon the marble there is carved a symbol, and a suffering
head, which makes the weary heart forget those thorns, because
they are sanctified for ever, by encircling the brows
carved there.

Embracing at a glance the whole horizon, extending thus
from childhood to old age, the man of true heart, standing
on the summit of manhood, does not shrink. For if the
bright fields he looks back upon were filled with strange delights,
the path he has yet to tread is not sombre, does not
want for consolations—if the light of dawn was fresh and
golden, a light streams from the Cross, cut in stone, and rising
o'er the champaign, which is far more pure. For it
murmurs to the spirit “Peace!”

And now, if the reader is disposed to find fault with this
philosophic and meditative digression, we can only say that
we regret it, requesting him to pass over any future digressions
of the same description. Let us then return to Mr.
Jack Hamilton, whose middle-aged appearance, and two or
three gray hairs, led us away.

Mr. Hamilton rode on composedly, and soon reached Effingham
Hall, which was not very far, as we know, from
“The Trap,” where the forlorn and unhappy bachelor pined
in single blessedness, and uproarious mirth. Mr. Effingham
was standing before the fire-place in the dining-room, amusing
himself by gazing through the window, at the cloud
shadows.

Hamilton grasped him cordially by the hand, and this
exhibition of friendly regard was returned with as great
heartiness.

“I'm glad to see your familiar face, Hamilton,” said
Mr. Effingham, “and I do not think you have changed in
the least.”

“Not a bit, I believe,” returned the fox-hunter “but,
by George! you have.”

Mr. Effingham looked out of the window.

“Are all the boys well?” he asked at length.

“Yes.”

“And fox-hunt as much as ever?”

“More!”

“What an easy, careless time you must have, with that
passion for the chase, Hamilton.”

“Well, I don't know. It has its drawbacks,” replied his
friend. “but suits a disreputable bachelor like myself.”

“It is a great thing for the blood; I used to hunt—and
I can understand what you mean, by saying that it has its
drawbacks; a broken arm, collar bone, or leg, for instance.”

“I did not mean that, Champ, my boy. A good rider
can always avoid that—but the ladies don't like it.”

“The ladies?” asked Mr. Effingham, with his habitual
faint smile lighting up his calm, weary face, at the mortified
tones of his friend.

“Yes, yes,” said Hamilton.

“Explain yourself!”

“Why, Miss Alethea here, for instance.”

“Alethea?”

“Yes.”

“Does she lecture you?”

“By George! I should say she did. She never allows
me any rest. I never introduce the subject of fox-hunting,
but I am immediately informed that a gentleman of my
standing in the community should turn his attention to
other and more important matters; for instance, the improvement
of the parsonage of the new and popular Mr.
Christian, parson of the parish, or getting together a fund
for supplying the unfortunate little Indians over there on
the river with braccœ, as the Latin term is—vulgo trowsers.
Yes, sir! that is what makes me complain of the disadvantages
of my unfortunate bachelor and fox-hunter condition.
But enough; where are they all to-day?”

“Alethea and my father have gone over to Mr. Lee's.”

“Then you are all alone.”

“Yes—little Kate is here somewhere, I think.”

“A nice little creature,—and did you have a pleasant
passage?”

“Tolerably.”

“From London?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause for some moments, at the end of
which time Mr. Hamilton went into a fit of laughter, and
cried out:

“By George, Champ!—or if that oath is getting disreputable,
owing to his gracious Majesty's saying and doing—
by Jove! here am I dying to know all about your travels;
and according to the good old English custom, followed by
friends immemorially, we are dealing in the most ridiculous
commonplaces. Come, speak!”

And rising, Mr. Jack Hamilton assumed, what we believe
is known as the “Virginia position,” before the fire—
that is to say, a contented and indolent attitude, with the
shoulders bent forward, the coat skirts under the arms, the
right leg extended at an angle of ten or twenty degrees in
front.

“I have nothing to tell about my travels,” said Mr. Effingham,
wearily, and gazing as before at the cloud shadows
floating over the fields. “I went, knocked about, and came
back—that is all. What news of any consequence is there
in the neighborhood?”

“None.”

“There is to be a race soon, down near Jamestown?”

“Yes.”

“I think I shall go, though I take little interest in these
matters. Much politics talked about in the neighborhood?”

“Politics? there is nothing but politics talked. That
infernal Stamp Act is looked for every day, and the colony
is getting red hot.

“They are right,” said Effingham, with a slight color in
his wan cheek, “it is an infamous measure—and I saw the
whole affair in London; it will be passed.”

“Let 'em take care!” said Hamilton.

“Yes,” replied his friend, growing calm again; “you
rightly judge that it is an extreme test. But do not let us
talk politics, I have no spirits for it.”

Hamilton looked at his friend curiously.

“Were your travels very dull?” he asked. “It seems
to me that you have returned not much improved in vivacity,
Champ.”

Mr. Effingham raised his eyes, making no reply. Hamilton
returned his gaze, in perfect silence also, and for some
moments the friends looked thus at each other. Suddenly
Mr. Effingham held out his hand, and said:

“Well, Hamilton, if we must touch upon that subject—
if I speak of it—I know of no man better than yourself.
Come! you think I am dull—spiritless—with less vivacity
than ever?”

“Yes,” replied Hamilton, cordially pressing the hand
of his friend, “your cheeks are thinner and paler, your forehead
has the mark of thought upon it, your mouth does not
smile in a wholesome way. I repeat that you are less vivacious.”

“I was never very bright,” said Mr. Effingham; “but
can you not understand that there is in my case, to be estimated
and allowed for, a great force, an enormous motor?”

“A great force?”

“That of reaction!” said Mr. Effingham, calmly.

Hamilton had never been quick of apprehension, and it
must be confessed, did not understand the profound meaning
of these words.

“Well?” he said, however.

Mr. Effingham paused for some moments, looking calmly
through the window.

“Those clouds are very fine,” he said, “and the shadows
are beautiful.”

Then he added:

“But I was going to speak of myself. You wish to
know something of my travels, of my feelings, and all?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Hamilton,” continued Mr. Effingham, as calmly
as before, “you are a good friend, and I need not play the
reserved with you, though I assure you I feel no disposition
to dissect my own heart. It is not a pleasant task, but it
can do no harm.”

And after a pause of several minutes Mr. Effingham continued:

“You will no doubt recollect the affair which created so
much agreeable comment in this neighborhood, a year or two
ago:—an affair which, commencing like a comedy, came near
ending a tragedy for all the actors, among whom I held, I

believe, a distinguished rank. It is not necessary for me to
go over that matter for your entertainment, for I think
you know very nearly as much about it as I do myself: how
I loved with a wild and passionate infatuation a splendid and
fiery woman, who, from the first moment we encountered each
other, became my fate. You knew all that, and no doubt
understood the sequel: the tragedy (to return to my theatrical
metaphor) requires no prologue for you.”

“But in relation to that young girl who exerted so powerful
an influence upon my life,” continued Mr. Effingham, “let
me say two or three words. On our first meeting, in the tall
forest yonder, she said, in reply to my questions, that she
`was not a lady,' and in this characteristic speech lies the
whole explanation of what followed. Had I loved her as a
lady—or rather, to correct myself, had I approached her as
gentlemen are in the habit of approaching ladies, much which
afterwards occurred would never have taken place. I chanced
to do what under any circumstances I think I should not
have done. I went to the theatre, and there I saw that her
criticism of herself was, as far as the mere letter went, strictly
true. She was not a lady in the ordinary acceptation of the
word; and, blinded by my pride, my love—infatuation if you
will—I continued to regard her as an actress, from that moment
to the last scenes of the affair. Do not, however, imagine
that my love was any thing but the purest, after the acquaintance
that I made with the rare and wonderful texture
of this woman's nature. No! I loved her madly, but with
profound purity—for I am not naturally an impure man, and
never adopted the revolting habitudes of the soi-distant noble
society of England. I have never regarded women in the
humbler ranks as the natural purveyors for the amusement
of gentlemen. I loved this girl madly, but not, for that
reason, coarsely: and I think, that in the course of the
intensely dramatic scenes we had together, I must have
offered her my hand more than a score of times. You see
how it was; I scoffed at and taunted her, railed at her coldness,
and sneered at her `prudish airs' as I called them:
but I also honored and respected her at the bottom of my
heart, for her purity and nobility of nature. That brings
me back to the few words I wished to say of this young
girl.”

And, after a pause, Mr. Effingham continued, with perfect
calmness,—

“She was one of those rare and extraordinary natures,
who unite the most opposing and incompatible traits of character
in one harmonious whole. You read this characteristic
in her very eyes, which melted or fired, were brilliant or dim,
flashed gloriously with imperious disdain, or swam in the
dews of tenderness and childlike innocent emotions. Upon
the stage she was the character she personated—nothing
more nor less, for she completely lost her individuality, and
forgot the world of reality, entering free and untrammelled
into the brighter world of art—the splendid domain of imagination.
I have seen her, Hamilton, pass from emotion to
emotion with such a marvellous ease and strength that I
almost feared to approach her afterwards; I felt, as you may
imagine a man would feel, were some queen or empress to
converse familiarly with him in disguise; then, throwing off
the cloak which covered her imperial robes, reveal herself
in all the haughty and dazzling beauty of rank and power.
This young girl at home was a mere child, affectionate to her
coarse old father, unaffected, simple; you would have thought
her rather dull at times. In her character she was the queen
of art, and what art was made to interpret, beauty and passion.

“You follow me, do you not? I mean that this girl was
in intellect above all the women I have ever known; in resolution
more than a match for thousands of men: and with all
this she had the heart of a child,—the innocence and purity
of a young girl who has never left her mother's side. You
may now understand how passionate my infatuation must
have been, for I have always experienced a powerful attraction
towards truth and nobility, and, of course, a cordial
respect for strong character. I loved her, and finding my
advances met with indifference and cold aversion, which
afterwards changed to passionate aversion and no little dread
at times, you may imagine that the fire was blown into a
whirlwind of flame.

“I was carried away with passion—I found myself openly
defied—I executed that exceedingly unworthy scheme of
abduction.”

Mr. Effingham looked out of the window at the cloud
shadows again, and paused for some time.

“Well,” he continued, at length, “after that denouement
I went away, you know, and you now ask me to give you
some account of my travels. I cannot recall any thing which
makes them very interesting. It was the old tale, which we
sometimes read in romances; where the despairing lover who
has committed some wild act which drives him from his native
country, seeks distraction in travel, and endeavors, by changing
his residence incessantly, to escape the thoughts which
follow him as the shadow follows the body moving on. I ran
all over Europe—went to Constantinople, Egypt, Syria;
smoked abominable tobacco in Smyrna, and eat disgusting
macaroni in Naples. Rome was rather interesting, and I
think the happiest portion of my time was spent among the
Bernese Alps, in the cottage of a herdsman, with an artist
from Florence, who was an excellent companion, and aroused
me whenever I fell into one of my fits of rage and despondency.

“I had many such fits, and suffered no little remorse;
for I was uncertain whether my rival was dead or not. I
had no desire to kill him, strange to say, and was extremely
pleased to hear of his recovery by a letter received while I
was in Florence. You may understand from this, that by
force of travel and incessant novelty, my infatuation for that
young girl was slowly being worn down and smoothed away,
as the tire of a wheel is worn by the leagues it passes over,
and the obstacles in the track. I understood for the first
time then, that my madness had spent itself perforce of its
own violence, as a storm does, and was gone. I did not
grind my teeth and curse that rival, and, if the intelligence
of his recovery and marriage was not agreeable, that feeling
soon wore away. But my cheerfulness (vivacity, to use your
own word) did not return with the disappearance of the
afflicting emotions which had tortured me so long. No, I
now began to comprehend the truth of the dogma, that the
mental system closely resembles, in its modes of operation,
the physical. You know that when the human—I mean the
physical—system is put under the effect of an excessive stimulant,
whether that stimulant be the grape, or opium, or
some poison, taken in a quantity not sufficient to produce
death—there is, for a time, an unnatural exaltation, a tremendous
accession of velocity in all the wheels of life.

The blood rushes like a flood of fire through the veins—the
senses become a thousand times more acute. I will give you
an instance, and then finish my idea.

“At Smyrna I went one day into one of those shops
where opium is provided for the true believers, and mats for
them to smoke upon, and lie extended on when the divine
exaltation overcomes them. I was always curious to investigate
the causas rerum, and I wished to experience the effects
of the drug which was said to possess such extraordinary
properties. Well, the old animal handed me a sort of
chibouque, and in a few moments I was smoking like the
faithful around me, some of whom were already beginning
to totter. As I smoked the opium, the objects in the apartment
began to fade, a sort of mist waved before my eyes —
then all disappeared, and I entered, it seemed to me, another
world—a world so brilliant and beautiful, that any description
would only mar it. It is enough to say that life seemed
to have passed away with all its suffering, and boundless happiness
in another sphere of being opened on me. My blood
seemed to roll on like a golden river; I could hear the
murmur of the waves; my feet trod upon clouds, not earth
— I felt as you may imagine felt the Persian Peri, in the
fable when she entered Paradise.

“Well, I woke up with a suicidal sensation:—a desire
to leave the world where a man had to support the bundle
of nerves which were driving me to agony, with their jarring
and aching. A physical exaltation, you observe, had been
succeeded by a physical reaction just in proportion—as the
balance descends upon one hand, because the other side rises
above the natural level, the normal condition. Perhaps I
never suffered greater physical torture, and so you have the
illustration, a very lame one, of my trite dogma.

“I had reached the period of my travels where the post
brought me that letter containing the intelligence of my
rival's recovery: and I was about to say that in spite of
this weight raised from my breast, I did not become cheerful
again—and that, because the stormy emotions I had experienced
began to react as the physical organism feels the
reaction of hashish or other stimulant. I was completely
flat, if I may use the word, and I am so now, in spite of
my sight seeing; spite of all the bright eyes in Italy,

France, England, which have shone on me—and I assure
you that I was regarded as a very grand seigneur on the
continent, owing to the reasonable plumpness of my purse,
especially by the Italian damsels. They wearied me—as
art, literature, plays, society of all descriptions wearied me.
I felt through all this that the proverb of the Preacher
shone like a fire—that all was vanity—the very vanity of
vanities. I grew quite calm, and am so now, as I said.

“But stay: there was an incident in London which may
possibly add another touch to this picture of myself undergoing
the distracting effects of a European tour:—it goes
to show that my feelings were not quite deadened by the
countries, scenes, personages, I had seen—the time which
had elapsed.

“In London, one day, I chanced to raise my eyes to the
door of a theatre, and I saw the names of the members of
the `Virginia Company of Comedians'—the worthy gentlemen
were to play that evening. You see they had by that
time returned from Virginia to England, and were figuring
in the humbler characters they were suited to. I know not
what feeling seized me, and I determined to go and see
them play that evening. I went, and found these men just
the same easy, jovial, and coarse characters which I had
known them to be formerly:—for you know I had the honor
to be an accredited member of the `Virginia Company of
Comedians,' and was favored with the society of these worthies.
There they were now, just the same:—Hallam strutted
in his pompous good-humored way; Shylock, as one of
these fellows was called, still exhibited an admirable burlesque
of tragedy:—the Virginia Company had become a
London Company, that was all.

“The effect produced upon me by the sight of these
men was singular. I seemed to go back in actual reality
to that former time so filled with fiery passion, with love,
disdain, hatred, despair. The very atmosphere seemed to
envelope me again—that atmosphere again filled my veins
with fierce heat, and so powerful were these emotions, that,
carried away by my old fury, I drew my short sword, and
would have struck a gentleman who stood by me, had it not
been wrested from my hand. He was enraged—I could not
explain, or rather he would not hear my vague excuse—we

fought on the next morning. But nothing came of it;—he
was a lame hand, and I disarmed him, and allowed him to
depart. I do not think I recovered from the effect of that
performance for a whole month:—but it was the last muttering
of the storm—the tempest after that died away completely,
and I now feel convinced that nothing can again
arouse in me those tempestuous memories. Soon after the
incident I have mentioned, I left London, tired, completely
wearied of every thing European, and experiencing a singular
sentiment of home-sickness, which I had read of in Virgil,
and many poets after him; but had never believed in
before. I actually began to feel some return of warmth in
my frozen breast, thinking of Virginia here—the Hall—my
father—the children, and the servants. I cannot say that
any of my yearning—the rhetorical word, I believe—was
directed toward the ladies of the neighborhood: no, I have
done with women, Hamilton, and shall in future avoid them,
as the helmsman avoids the sunken rock, the whirlpool, or
the muttering storm: well, this is by the way. I was about
to tell you how I found that my heart was no longer subject
to these stormy memories; and I proved that satisfactorily
to myself on my arrival—after a tolerably pleasant passage
of two months—in Virginia.

“Do you remember—but you must—my sojourn in the
old days at the Raleigh tavern? Yes? Well, I also remember
it very distinctly! Let me tell you how I tried
myself, and found that my heart was thenceforth as cold as
ice, and equal to any test.

“I had occupied, in those former days I have alluded
to, an apartment in the tavern known as number six; and
she—you understand—had two rooms just opposite. Having
arrived in the town from York, at which port I disembarked,
late in the evening, I resolved to spend the night
there, and I ordered the apartments formerly occupied by
the young girl to be prepared for me, with the direct intention
to try myself That this trial should be final and definite,
I arranged the apartments just as they had been in the
past:—the first, I mean, for of the second, her bedroom, I
knew nothing, having never entered it. A bureau had been
removed to a different position: I changed it to its former
place: the slight couch was out of place: I restored it. An

eight-day clock ticked on the high narrow mantlepiece—I removed
it, and substituted the oblong mirror which had once
graced it—leaning forward from the wall. I ordered a single
wax-light then to be placed upon the table in the corner,
and went and procured a straw hat, such as she wore, with
red ribbon, for I remembered all perfectly; and this I
threw down upon the couch.

“I wandered about for an hour near the theatre, the
Governor's palace—along Gloucester street—reviving her
image in my mind: then as night drew on, I went to the
apartment—paused at the door and knocked, opened the
door and entered. The dim wax-light threw long shadows
through the room, and the illusion was complete. I could
almost fancy that she had just passed into the adjoining
chamber, having thrown down her hat upon the sofa.

“Well, I sat down, smiling, and with my hand upon my
brow, summoned all that past, so full of brilliant and passionate
figures, and more fiery and passionate emotions, back
to me. I commanded those days to rise and defile before
me in a long glittering line; and I went over every scene,
every sensation, every emotion, whether of suffering or delight,
happiness or anguish. I mean that I recalled them,
by an effort of memory, not that I really felt them. No: I
did not flush, and grow pale, and tear my breast, and rave,
as was my wont formerly:—I smiled. I saw that splendid
passionate beauty again, but she no longer filled my heart
with delirious love, mad anguish: she interested me merely.
I felt, as you may imagine a man feels, when he is listening
to some fine effort of an improvisatore;—where the passions,
feelings, incidents, all, interest without moving you very
deeply, however tragic. The drama of my life was merely
a drama to me now: and I smiled at my old infatuation.
To make the drama complete, I raised the window—summoned
perforce of my imagination the instruments of that wild
and unworthy scheme; and then, with a stealthy tread, approached
the chair which she had lain sleeping in. I saw
again her enchanting face, with its tender languid beauty as
she slept:—the profuse curls upon her snowy neck, the undulations
of her figure, as half reclining in the chair, she
drew long breaths, worn out with watching, and slumbering
heavily. I saw it all, and would have smiled again at the

comedy I was playing, had not my conscience reproached me
bitterly for that act:—that stratagem which was so unworthy
of me, as it is unworthy of a man to cheat a child.
I sat down again, and thought of her in her far mountain
home, the happy wife of my rival—I left out no particular,
I tested my heart to the very bottom—and what was the
result? Why, indifference, Hamilton! My infatuation
was dead, and I slept as soundly that night in the apartment
she had moved about in like a bright sunbeam, as
ever I did worn out with travel in the inns of Switzerland.

“Well, here I am now, and I am happily over all that
—the play is played, the curtain has fallen on the whole,
and it is forgotten. Let it go: I went and took my part in
it of my own accord, and cannot complain that the fiery passions
of the drama have worn me out. I am completely
worn out, and there you see, I have returned precisely to
what I commenced with.”

Hamilton had listened to this narrative in almost perfect
silence; and he now remained silent for some time longer.
At length, looking curiously at Mr. Effingham, who,
stretched languidly in his chair, was gazing listlessly through
the window, the honest fellow said suddenly, with some embarrassment:

“Champ, have you seen Clare Lee yet?”

Mr. Effingham looked intently at his friend for an instant,
and then turning away his eyes again, said, indifferently:

“Yes.”

Hamilton found himself at a loss how to proceed. Mr.
Effingham came to his relief.

“I know what you mean,” he said, calmly; “and I will
answer the question which you have not asked—but you
have looked it. You mean, Hamilton, that perhaps my indifference
to every thing, my deadness, if you like the word,
springs from the fact that I have not yet seen the girl whose
presence used to have such an effect on me. You are mistaken:
I have seen her, and I was perfectly calm. On the
day I arrived at the Hall, she chanced to be here on a visit,
and when I made my appearance she was standing directly
in front of me, leaning on the harpsichord. Let me confess
that I did experience something like a distinct emotion upon

seeing her, but, my dear fellow, it did not last. My
heart is too much like a sullen lake, deep and black:—it is
not moved by so slight a breeze—and I was quite calm
again in a moment, and bowed low, and turned round and
conversed with a placidity wholly unaffected. I do not say
that the sight of Clare,” continued Mr. Effingham, in a
slightly altered tone, “did not afford me a certain degree
of pleasure and pain. I loved her once, and my affection
was of that simple, tender description, which outlasts a
thousand bursts of passion: for it makes up in depth what
it lacks in fire. But I was not deeply stirred—and I think
I felt greater pleasure at seeing all here, than at meeting her.
Ah! I think she has almost forgotten my wild vagaries—a
good girl!”

And Mr. Effingham, for a moment, looked less weary.
Hamilton was thinking of the narrative he had just listened
to, and endeavoring by an exertion of his not very powerful
mind, to arrive at the psychological significance of it. Mr.
Effingham came to his assistance.

“You are puzzling yourself,” he said, with a languid
smile, “to make out what I am, Hamilton. What is the
sum total of all these various emotions, conflicting passions?
I will tell you. It is weariness, indifference, and content, if
I may be allowed thus to couple what seem to be incompatible
things. I assure you that I care for nothing in the
world. I love the family, I am fond of the Hall here; but
these feelings are not very strong. As to my convictions
opinions, I believe in nothing, Hamilton, I care for nothing.
I get angry sometimes, thinking of his gracious Majesty's
legislation on Virginia matters; but after all the thought
comes `What is the use? Why should I trouble myself
about his Majesty? He wearies me.' As to any ambition,
any social or political aspiration, I have none; it wearies
me, just as every thing wearied me in Europe. I played
whole days and nights, in Paris, and got up and kicked aside
the pile of cards around my ankles, with perfect indifference;
I was neither elevated nor depressed by good or bad fortune,
and gave a check on my banker, if I lost, or stuffed the gold
I won into my pocket, without emotion, good or bad. I went
and listened to innumerable tragedies, incessant operas in
France and Italy; they wearied me. I believe I fought

three or four times, with men I had no intention to insult—
I left the ground after these events, with my scratches, when
I got any, as I came; indifferently. I have no gallant experiences
to add to this—I got enough of women here, and
made a resolution to avoid them, to which resolution I have
religiously adhered. Well. you see I am worn out—I believe
in nothing—I take interest in nothing—I do not complain—I
shall probably vegetate here, and become a fat, honest
squire, presiding, possibly, at county courts, and talking
knowingly of tobacco, and the prices of cattle and of blood,
and so, at the appointed time, go the way of all humanity.
There it is.”

And Mr. Effingham gazed at the fire as calmly as he had
spoken. Hamilton looked at him closely for some time, and
then said:

“Champ, you want a physician!”

“A physician?” asked his friend.

“Yes.”

“I am not sick!”

“Yes you are.'

“I?”

“Yes, you.”

“Sick?”

“Very sick.”

Mr. Effingham nodded.

“Oh! I understand you now;” he said, “my mind you
fancy, is not healthy.”

“I don't imagine any thing about it. By George! I
know it.”

“Well?”

“Let me be your doctor?”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Effingham.

“Will you follow my directions—take my prescriptions?”

“That depends wholly upon their flavor.”

“Come now—you retreat at once.”

“No.”

“If I ask nothing unreasonable?”

“Will I put myself under the direction of Doctor
Hamilton?” said Mr. Effingham, smiling faintly at the

honest fellow's earnestness; “is that what you meant to
say?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I promise that much very cheerfully.”

“Good!” cried honest Jack; “I'll cure you, by George!
and make you a jolly companion again, or I'll eat my head.”

“You would have an awful indigestion,” replied Mr. Effingham;
“but let me hear your scheme.”

“No, that does not concern you; I take the responsibility
of the drugs. No cure, no pay.”

“And what will be your pay, provided you succeed?”

“The satisfaction of hearing you laugh loud enough to
shake the windows, and seeing you become the jolly boy of
former times again.”

“Jack, you are the best friend I have, upon my honor, I
think,” said Mr. Effingham. “I wish you were as excellent
a physician.”

“Never mind! by Jove! we'll make the trial. And as
you say you do not believe in any thing, I do not ask you to
believe in my proficieney in the art, until you feel it. I am
going now to see Tom Lane. Goodbye.”

“Do not go yet; come, you are fashionable.”

“No, I must go,” said Hamilton, shaking hands with his
friend, and putting on his hat. “My horse is there—I told
them not to take him. By Jove! look at him! he's a splendid
fellow. Did you ever see such a sweep of the loin?
Remember now—I commence next week!”

And whistling merrily, Mr. Hamilton departed.

“There goes a happy man, and an honest fellow,” said
Mr. Effingham, going languidly into the library; “an intelligent
mind too. There is only one delusion under which he
labors—he thinks he can cure me.”

Mr. Effingham took his hat and cane, and strolled out on
the lawn.

“Very pretty, and very wearisome!” he said, looking
at the landscape. And he turned away.