IV. 



THE BALL. 



WE were seven in all, — as jolly a set of fel- 

 lows as ever rollicked under the pines, 

 or startled the owls with laughter, that summer 

 of '67, when camping on the Eacquette. Our com- 

 pany represented a variety of business and profes- 

 sions; but, happily, we were of one temper and 

 taste. 



There was Hubbard, a gentleman faultless in 

 bearing and speech ; the fit of whose coat and the 

 gloss of whose boots, whether you met him in Wall 

 Street or at his manufactory in Connecticut, might 

 well stir the envy of an exquisite. There was 

 Everitt, to whose name you could write photog- 

 rapher, artist, violinist; the most genial, sunny, 

 kind-hearted, and rollicksome fellow that ever en- 

 livened a camp, or blest the world with his pres- 

 ence. Southwick, when at home, supplied half the 

 city with soles ; who sells boots and shoes in such 

 a manner as to make you feel, as you go stamping 

 away from his presence, that he has done you a spe- 

 cial favor in condescending to take your money at 

 aU ; a man who crossed the Isthmus, and tunnelled 



