There was one unique, whom I hardly dare attempt to describe. In speaking he deals principally in antithesis, and he himself is an antithesis personified. The wildest conceits—the sharpest satire—the bitterest, maddest vituperation—the most exquisite taste—the most subtil appreciation of the delicate and beautiful in his subject—the most radiant wit—the most dainty and Ariel-like fancy—with a manner and a mien the most quaint, abrupt and uncouth imaginable—it is like nothing in nature, or rather it is so exceedingly natural that it seems almost supernatural. His discourse is all thunder and lightning—every play of his impish eye-brows is an epigram, every smile a jeu d’esprit. At one time affectionate, confiding, careless, buoyant, almost boyish in his mood; at another, irritable, ferocious, seemingly ready for a tiger-spring upon any foe, and again calm, cold, haughty, and uncomeatable as an Indian of the olden time. Here is a stranger original than any his favorite author ever drew. He is the ideal Yankee of the nineteenth century. There, too, nestled demurely in a corner of the sofa was that little “will-o’-the-wisp,” V—, whom nobody knows what to make of—wild, wayward, capricious as an April day—changeable as the light spring-cloud, and restless as the wave—the spoiled child of Fancy, “Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love!” To those who care for her, all trust and truth, and poetry and sportive fondness, and deep impassioned feeling—to all the rest of the world proud, still, reserved, dull, apathetic, reckless of opinion and of consequences: a tame Canary-bird to kindness, a lioness to injustice and oppression. Nature, with her sympathetic ink, has drawn pictures in her soul, which seem to the cold and careless only pale, frost-work, wintry views; but which, in the warmth of affection, change to glowing summer scenes, with flowers and foliage, and gleaming springs, shifting clouds, and singing birds and butterflies, all of which were always there, and needed only the summer of sympathy and love to draw them out. By her side sat the man of exhaustless and most whimsical wit, whom _she_ calls the “laughing philosopher,” and whom _I_ strongly suspect of having found, and selfishly concealed the “philosopher’s stone.” He is the most refreshing, contented, and sunshiny-looking mortal that ever smiled in this cold world of ours. Ever ready and brilliant, he whispers his irresistable bon-mots and his charming jeux d’esprit, as if he were ashamed of them, and calls it a breach of confidence if they are repeated aloud.