“Certainly not,” said I; and fell in love with the present Mrs. Potiphar, and married her off-hand. So, if she calls this genuine influence of association a mere whim--let it go at that. She is a whim, too. My mistake simply was in not following out the romantic whim, and marrying Lucy Lamb. At least it seems to me so, this morning. In fact sitting in my very new “palatial residence,” the whole business of life seems to me rather whimsical. For here I am, come into port at last. No longer young,--but worth a good fortune,--master of a great house,--respected down town,--husband of Mrs. Potiphar,--and father of Master Frederic ditto. Per contra; I shall never be in love again,--in getting my fortune I have lost my real life,--my house is dreary,--Mrs. Potiphar is not Lucy Lamb,--and Master Frederic--is a good boy. The game is all up for me, and yet I trust I have good feeling enough left to sympathize with those who are still playing. I see girls as lovely and dear as any of which poets have sung--as fresh as dew-drops, and beautiful as morning. I watch their glances, and understand them better than they know.--for they do not dream that “old Potiphar” does any thing more than pay Mrs. P.’s bills. I see the youths nervous about neckcloths, and anxious that their hair shall be parted straight behind. I see them all wear the same tie, the same trowsers, the same boots. I hear them all say the same thing, and dance with the same partners in the same way. I see them go to Europe and return--I hear them talk slang to show that they have exhausted human life in foreign parts and observe them demean themselves according to their idea of the English nobleman. I watch them go in strongly for being “manly,” and “smashing the spoonies”--asserting intimacies with certain uncertain women in Paris, and proving it by their treatment of ladies at home. I see them fuddle themselves on fine wines and talk like cooks, play heavily and lose, and win, and pay, and drink, and maintain a conservative position in politics, denouncing “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” as a false and fanatical tract; and declaring that our peculiar institutions are our own affair, and that John Bull had better keep his eyes at home to look into his coal mines. I see this vigorous fermentation subside, and much clear character deposited--and, also, much life and talent muddled forever.