curving down from the centre of the nose and rounding up the cheeks, in a military pothook, the gallant whiskerage of Lord Charles Chawles. Over the whole face an expression of sternly supercilious insolence, inspiring to behold. A fine young man—two fine young men indeed; models of their kind; full of the pride of caste and all its callousness. Destined to be citizens of the highest respectability, when their wild oats—and they were wild—were sown and come to the hard and selfish harvest. Already they had begun, and begun well. Furnished with their father’s money, they had their club, their boon-companions, their mistresses, their fast horses, and drank and drove and gamed and revelled in a manner hardly outdone by Lord Hawbury and Lord Charles Chawles themselves. They were, moreover, stanch young Whigs—Union men, Constitution men, Law and Order men, Fugitive Slave Law men, sound on the goose in every conceivable particular. Proof of their devotion to their country, they had only the Saturday before, foregone their customary drive on the Cambridge road, foregone their supper and wine at Porter’s, and stayed in town to hear Mr. Webster at Faneuil Hall, and even now, Thomas, the younger and more ardent spirit, was a little hoarse from cheering on that memorable occasion. Proof again of their devotion to their country, which always meant in one form or another the Southern-Slavery part of their country, here they were, nobly sacrificing their customary drive, to muster with the rest of the family and greet the ardent son of the sunny South, the gallant and chivalrous Southern gentleman then expected, and not yet come. He was coming, though, for while this interesting group, properly stilted for the occasion, were waiting and chatting, a strenuous pull at the bell-wire was heard, with the answering jingle of the hall bell. “That’s him, be Jove!” exclaimed Thomas, straightening up on his slim legs, and adjusting the bows of his neck-tie, while he looked with military sternness at the drawing-room door.