THE EMANCIPATION OF BILLY
In the old, old, square-porticoed mansion, with the wry window-
shutters and the paint peeling off in discoloured flakes, lived one of the last war governors.
The South has forgotten the enmity of the great conflict, but it refuses to abandon its old traditions and idols.In "Governor"
Pemberton, as he was still fondly called, the inhabitants of Elmville saw the relic of their state's ancient greatness and glory.In his day he had been a man large in the eye of his country.His state had pressed upon him every honour within its gift.And now when he was old, and enjoying a richly merited repose outside the swift current of public affairs, his townsmen loved to do him reverence for the sake of the past.
The Governor's decaying "mansion" stood upon the main street of Elmville within a few feet of its rickety paling-fence.Every morning the Governor would descend the steps with extreme care and deliberation--on account of his rheumatism--and then the click of his gold-headed cane would be heard as he slowly proceeded up the rugged brick sidewalk.He was now nearly seventy-eight, but he had grown old gracefully and beautifully.His rather long, smooth hair and flowing, parted whiskers were snow-white.His full-skirted frock-croak was always buttoned snugly about his tall, spare figure.He wore a high, well-kept silk hat--known as a "plug" in Elmville--and nearly always gloves.His manners were punctilious, and somewhat overcharged with courtesy.
The Governor's walks up Lee Avenue, the principal street, developed in their course into a sort of memorial, triumphant procession.Everyone he met saluted him with profound respect.Many would remove their hats.Those who were honoured with his personal friendship would pause to shake hands, and then you would see exemplified the genuine /beau ideal/ Southern courtesy.
Upon reaching the corner of the second square from the mansion, the Governor would pause.Another street crossed the venue there, and traffic, to the extent of several farmers' wagons and a peddler's cart or two, would rage about the junction.Then the falcon eye of General Deffenbaugh would perceive the situation, and the General would hasten, with ponderous solicitude, from his office in the First National Bank building to the assistance of his old friend.
When the two exchanged greetings the decay of modern manners would become accusingly apparent.The General's bulky and commanding figure would bend lissomely at a point where you would have regarded its ability to do so with incredulity.The Governor would take the General's arm and be piloted safely between the hay-wagons and the sprinkling-cart to the other side of the street.Proceeding to the post-office in the care of his friend, the esteemed statesmen would there hold an informal levee among the citizens who were come for their morning mail.Here, gathering two or three prominent in law, politics, or family, the pageant would make a stately progress along the Avenue, stopping at the Palace Hotel, where, perhaps, would be found upon the register the name of some guest deemed worthy of an introduction to the state's venerable and illustrious son.If any such were found, an hour or two would be spent in recalling the faded glories of the Governor's long-vanished administration.
On the return march the General would invariably suggest that, His Excellency being no doubt fatigued, it would be wise to recuperate for a few minutes at the Drug Emporium of Mr.Appleby R.Fentress (an elegant gentleman, sir--one of the Chatham County Fentresses--so many of our best-blooded families have had to go into trade, sir, since the war).
Mr.Appleby R.Fentress was a /connoisseur/ in fatigue.Indeed, if he had not been, his memory alone should have enabled him to prescribe, for the majestic invasion of his pharmacy was a casual happening that had surprised him almost daily for years.Mr.Fentress knew the formula of, and possessed the skill to compound, a certain potion antagonistic to fatigue, the salient ingredient of which he described (no doubt in pharmaceutical terms) as "genuine old hand-made Clover Leaf '59, Private Stock."
Nor did the ceremony of administering the potion ever vary.Mr.
Fentress would first compound two of the celebrated mixtures--one for the Governor, and the other for the General to "sample." Then the Governor would make this little speech in his high, piping, quavering voice:
"No, sir--not one drop until you have prepared one for yourself and join us, Mr.Fentress.Your father, sir, was one of my most valued supporters and friends during My Administration, and any mark of esteem I can confer upon his son is not only a pleasure but a duty, sir."
Blushing with delight at the royal condescension, the druggist would obey, and all would drink to the General's toast: "The prosperity of our grand old state, gentlemen--the memory of her glorious past--the health of her Favourite Son."
Some one of the Old Guard was always at hand to escort the Governor home.Sometimes the General's business duties denied him the privilege, and then Judge Broomfield or Colonel Titus, or one of the Ashford County Slaughters would be on hand to perform the rite.
Such were the observances attendant upon the Governor's morning stroll to the post-office.How much more magnificent, impressive, and spectacular, then, was the scene at public functions when the General would lead forth the silver-haired relic of former greatness, like some rare and fragile waxwork figure, and trumpet his pristine eminence to his fellow citizens!
