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You see, Miss Harz, that Cavalier blood of ours, that inspired the old English bards, will tell, in spite of circumstances." "But genius is of no rank no blood no clime! What court poet of his day, Major Favraud, compared with Robert Burns for feeling, fire, and pathos? Who ever sung such siren strains as Moore, a simple Irishman of low degree? No Cavalier blood there, I fancy!
Major Favraud sat holding his ribbons gracefully in one gauntleted hand, while he uncovered his head with the other, bowing suavely in his knightly fashion, as he said: "Come drive with me, Miss Harz, for a while, and let the young folks take it together." "Oh, no, Major Favraud; you must excuse me, indeed! I feel a little languid this morning, and I should be poor company.
As for Major Favraud, he had turned to leave us on the door-sill, to see to the comfort and safety of his horses; not liking, perhaps, the appearance of the superannuated ostler, who lounged near the stable of the inn, if such might be called this rustic retreat without sign, lodging, or bar-rooms. "Are we in the mansion of a decayed queen, or the log-hut of a wayside innkeeper?"
Durand looked serious at the sight of my woful aspect, and Marion mutely proffered her vinaigrette, gratefully accepted, as was the good doctor's compassionate silence; but, as usual, Favraud, after having once gotten fairly under weigh, ran on. "What is the use of bewailing the inevitable?" he pursued.
There was a momentary pause after this fervent greeting, emotional on one part only. "But why did you not meet me at Milledgeville?" asked Mr. Calhoun. "Most of my friends in this vicinity sustained me there. I have been discussing the great question again, Favraud, and I should have been glad of your countenance."
"I have been detained at home of late by a cruel necessity," was the faltering reply, "or I should never have played recreant to my old master." "Good fortune spoiled me a fine lawyer in your case, Victor! But introduce me to your wife. "Miss Harz, Miss La Vigne, Miss Durand Mr. Calhoun," said Major Favraud, pale as death now, and trembling as he spoke.
"Longfellow!" he said, at last, "Phoebus, what a name!" adding affectedly, "yet it seems to me, on reflection, I have heard it before. He is a Yankee, of course! Now, do you earnestly believe a native of New England, by descent a legitimate witch-burner, you know, can be any thing better than a poll-parrot in the poetical line?" "Have we not proof to the contrary, Major Favraud?" "What proof?
But I know where the framework came from! Old Drayton furnished that in his 'Battle of Agincourt." Then in a clear, sonorous voice, he gave some specimens of each, so as to point the resemblance, real or imaginary. "You are content with mere externs in finding your similitudes, Major Favraud! In power of thought, beauty of expression, what comparison is there?
All this did Major Favraud, in his own merry mood, communicate to us on the occasion of his memorable visit to San Francisco, when he remained our delighted guest during one long delicious summer season. Of Gregory, we never heard. "I had hoped to hear of your marriage long before this," I said to him one day. "Tell me why you have not wedded some fair lady before this time.
"By-the-by," digressed Duganne, weary of discussion, "hear that old fellow outside, how he is going on, Favraud,
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