it would do me much of pleasure if I could elope with you all on the road of iron, but the bete noir, the Moral, will not permit.  Behold for which, as an opened box of Louvin’s perfumeries, I dispense my fragrant affection to you all:  breathe it and be happy!” Such homage he receives with graceful acquiescence, believing his recognition of it a sweet fruition to the fair adorers.  He accepts it as he does the ices, wines and delicate French dishes familiar to his palate.  Life is a fountain of eau sucree, where everything is sweet to him, and he tries to make it so to you, for he is a kindly-natured, true-hearted, valiant little French gentleman.  His loves, his innocent dissipations, his grand passions, his rapier duels, would fill the volumes of a Le Sage or a Cervantes.  In the gay circles of New Orleans he floats with lambent wings and irresistible fine eyes, its serenest butterfly, admired and spoiled alike by the French and American element.

At this early spring season a new atom of the latter enters the charmed circle, breaking its merry round into other sparkles of foam.  A well-formed, stately, rather florid gentleman alights at the St. Charles, and is ushered into the hospitalities of that elegant caravansary.  There is something impressive about him, or there would be farther North.  He is American, from the strong, careless Anglo-Saxon face, through all the stalwart bones and full figure, to the strong, firm, light step.  He will crush through the lepidoptera of this half-French society like a silver knife through Tourtereaux souffles a la creme.  He brings letters to this and that citizen, or he is well known already, and “coloneled” familiarly by stamp-expectant waiters and the courteous master of ceremonies at the clerk’s desk.  He calls, on his bankers, and is received with gracious familiarity in the pleasant bank-parlor.  Correspondence has made them acquainted with Colonel Beverage in the way of business:  they are glad to see him in person, and will be happy to wait on him.  He makes them happy in that way, for they do wait upon him satisfactorily.  There is a little pleasant interchange of news and city gossip, and of something else.  There is a crinkling of a certain crispy, green foliage, and the colonel withdraws in the midst of civilities.

He next appears on Canal street, by and beyond the Clay Monument, with occasional pauses at clothiers’, and buys his shirts at Moody’s, as he has probably often sworn not to do, because of its annoyingly frequent posters everywhere.  He enters jewelers’ shops and examines trinkets—­serpents with ruby eyes curled in gold on beds of golden leaves with emerald dews upon them; pearls, pear-shaped and tearlike, brought up by swart, glittering divers, seven fathom deep, at Tuticorin or in the Persian Gulf; rubies and sapphires mined in Burmese Ava, and diamonds from Borneo and Brazil.  Is he choosing a bridal present?  It looks so; but no, he selects a splendid, brilliant solitaire, for which he pays