On a splendid October afternoon, in the year of our
Lord 1763, two persons who will appear frequently in this
history were seated in the great dining-room of Effingham
Hall.

But let us first say a few words of this old mansion.
Effingham Hall was a stately edifice not far from Williamsburg,
which, as every body knows, was at that period the capital
city of the colony of Virginia. The hall was constructed of
elegant brick brought over from England: and from the
great portico in front of the building a beautiful rolling
country of hills and valleys, field and forest, spread itself
pleasantly before the eye, bounded far off along the circling
belt of woods by the bright waters of the noble river.

Entering the large hall of the old house, you had before
you, walls covered with deers' antlers, fishing-rods, and guns:
portraits of cavaliers, and dames and children: even carefully
painted pictures of celebrated race-horses, on whose speed
and bottom many thousands of pounds had been staked and
lost and won in their day and generation.

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On one side of the hall a broad staircase with oaken balustrade
led to the numerous apartments above: and on the
opposite side, a door gave entrance into the great dining-room.

The dining-room was decorated with great elegance:—
the carved oak wainscot extending above the mantelpiece in
an unbroken expanse of fruits and flowers, hideous laughing
faces, and long foamy surges to the cornice. The furniture
was in the Louis Quatorze style, which the reader is familiar
with, from its reproduction in our own day; and the chairs
were the same low-seated affairs, with high carved backs,
which are now seen. There were Chelsea figures, and a sideboard
full of plate, and a Japan cabinet, and a Kidderminster
carpet, and huge andirons. On the andirons crackled a
few twigs lost in the great country fireplace.

On the wall hung a dozen pictures of gay gallants, brave
warriors, and dames, whose eyes outshone their diamonds:—
and more than one ancestor looked grimly down, clad in cuirass
and armlets, and holding in his mailed hand the sword
which had done bloody service in its time. The lady portraits,
as an invariable rule, were decorated with sunset
clouds of yellow lace—the bright locks were powdered, and
many little black patches set off the dazzling fairness of the
rounded chins. Lapdogs nestled on the satin laps: and not
one of the gay dames but seemed to be smiling, with her head
bent sidewise fascinatingly on the courtly or warlike figures
ranged with them in a long glittering line.

These portraits are worth looking up to, but those which
we promised the reader are real.

In one of the carved chairs, if any thing more uncomfortable
than all the rest, sits, or rather lounges, a young
man of about twenty-five. He is very richly clad, and in a
costume which would be apt to attract a large share of attention
in our own day, when dress seems to have become a
mere covering, and the prosaic tendencies of the age are to
despise every thing but what ministers to actual material
pleasure.

The gentleman before us lives fortunately one hundred
years before our day: and suffers from an opposite tendency
in costume. His head is covered with a long flowing peruke,
heavy with powder, and the drop curls hang down on

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his cheeks ambrosially: his cheeks are delicately rouged,
and two patches, arranged with matchless art, complete the
distinguished tout ensemble of the handsome face. At
breast, a cloud of lace reposes on the rich embroidery of his
figured satin waistcoat, reaching to his knees:—this lace is
point de Venise and white, that fashion having come in just
one month since. The sleeves of his rich doublet are turned
back to his elbows, and are as large as a bushel—the opening
being filled up, however, with long ruffles, which reach down
over the delicate jewelled hand. He wears silk stockings of
spotless white, and his feet are cased in slippers of Spanish
leather, adorned with diamond buckles. Add velvet garters
below the knee:—a little muff of leopard-skin reposing near
at hand upon a chair—not omitting a snuff-box peeping from
the pocket, and Mr. Champ Effingham, just from Oxford and
his grand tour, is before you with his various surroundings.

He is reading the work which some time since attained
to such extreme popularity, Mr. Joseph Addison's serial,
“The Spectator,”—collected now for its great merits, into
bound volumes. Mr. Effingham reads with a languid air,
just as he sits, and turns over the leaves with an ivory paper
cutter, which he brought from Venice with the plate glass
yonder on the sideboard near the silver baskets and pitchers.
This languor is too perfect to be wholly affected, and
when he yawns, as he does frequently, Mr. Effingham applies
himself to that task very earnestly.

In one of these paroxysms of weariness the volume slips
from his hand to the floor.

“My book,” he says to a negro boy, who has just brought
in some dishes. The boy hastens respectfully to obey—
crossing the whole width of the room for that purpose. Mr.
Effingham then continues reading.

Now for the other occupant of the apartment. She sits near
the open window, looking out upon the lawn and breathing
the pure delicious air of October as she works. She is clad
in the usual child's costume of the period (she is only eleven
or twelve), namely, a sort of half coat, half frock, reaching
scarcely below the knees; an embroidered undervest; scarlet
silk stockings with golden clocks, and little rosetted shoes
with high red heels. Her hair is unpowdered, and hangs in
curls upon her neck and bare shoulders. Her little fingers

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are busily at work upon a piece of embroidery which represents
or is to represent a white water dog upon an intensely
emerald back-ground, and she addresses herself to this occupation
with a business air which is irresistibly amusing, and
no less pleasant to behold. There is about the child, in her
movements, attitude, expression, every thing, a freshness and
innocence which is only possessed by children. This is Miss
Kate Effingham, whose parents died in her infancy, for which
reason the little sunbeam was taken by the squire, her father's
brother.

Kate seems delighted with the progress she has made in
delineating Carlo, as she calls him, and pauses a moment to
survey her brilliant handiwork. She then opens her ivory
decorated work-box to select another shade of silk, holding
it on her lap by the low-silled open window.

But disastrous event! Just as she had found what she
wanted, just as she had procured the exact shade for Carlo's
ears, just as she closed the pretty box, full of all manner of
little elegant instruments of needle-work—she heard an impatient
exclamation of weariness and disdain, something fluttered
through the air, and this something striking the handsome
box delicately balanced on Kate's knees, precipitated
it, with its whole contents, through the window to the lawn
beneath.

The explanation of this sudden event is, that Mr. Effingham
has become tired of the “Spectator,” hurled it sidewise
from him without looking; and thus the volume has, after
its habit, produced a decided sensation, throwing the work-box
upon the lawn, and Kate into utter despair.