Valentine Blyth.
It might have been that the worthy and simple-hearted gentleman had
been unduly stimulated by the reek of hot grog, which in harmonious
association with a heavy mist of tobacco smoke, now filled the room; or
it might have been that the second brew of the Squaw's Mixture had
exceeded half a glassful in quantity, had not been diluted to the
requisite weakness, and had consequently got into his head; but,
whatever the exciting cause might be, the alteration that had taken
place since nine o'clock, in his voice, looks, and manners, was
remarkable enough to be of the nature of a moral phenomenon. He now
talked incessantly about nothing but the fine arts; he differed with
both his companions, and loftily insisted on his own superior sagacity,
whenever either of them ventured to speak a word; he was by turns as
noisy as Zack, and as gruff as Mat; his hair was crumpled down over his
forehead, his eyes were dimmed, his shirt collar was turned rakishly
over his cravat: in short, he was not the genuine Valentine Blyth at
all,--he was only a tipsy counterfeit of him.
As for young Thorpe, any slight steadiness of brain which he might
naturally possess, he had long since parted with, as a matter of
course, for the rest of the evening.
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