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!