tured cynicism; for how could he have imagined that I cared for
her? Though I sometimes think, even now, that Perry was indeed anxious
lest I should fall in love with her, and wanted to ridicule me out of
the notion, and I fear, in spite of his acquaintance, that he
disapproves of our engagement. I wonder if he will ever get over his
prejudice against women. The dear old fellow! if he would only consent
to know Lucretia better I am sure he would.

One night in the winter before we graduated, Perry and I went with
George to the Third House, which is a mock session of the legislature
that the political wags of the State take advantage of to display their
wit and quickness at repartee and ability to make artistic fools of
themselves. If it happens to be a year for the election of a senator, as
it was in this case, the different candidates are in turn made fun of
and held up to ridicule or approval; and the chief issues of the time
are handled without gloves in a way that is always amusing and often
worth while in showing the ridiculous nature of some of them. The Third
House is usually held on some evening during the first or second week of
the session, and is opened by the Speaker calling the house to order
with a thundering racket of the gavel--"made from the wood of trees
grown on the prairies of the State"--and announcing the squatter
governor. Since the State was a territory, this announcement, after due
formalities, has been followed by the statement that, as the squatter
governor is somewhat illiterate, his message will be read by his private
secretary. After this personage has read his score or more pages of
jokes, sarcastic allusions, and ridiculous recommendations, the
discussion of the message takes place, during which any one who thinks
of a bright remark may get up and fire it at the gallery; and many very
lame attempts pass for good wit, and much private spite goes for
harmless fooling.

George got us seats in the gallery next to old Billy Gait, the
bald-headed bachelor, who owns half a dozen houses which he rents for
fifty dollars a month each, and who lives on six hundred a year,
investing the surplus of his income every now and then in another house.
William, as usual, had a pretty girl at his elbow, and we heard him
telling her how he could never get interested in George Eliot's novels,
and how it beat him to know why he ever wrote such tedious books. The
young lady smiled over her fan at Randall, and sa