The
most that could be claimed was, that he came to Boston from Delaware when
very young, and that there on that brine-washed granite he had grown as
perfect a flower of helplessness and indolence, as fine a fruit of
maturing civilization, as ever expanded or ripened in Latin lands. He
lived, not only a protest in flesh and blood against the tendency of
democracy to exclude mere beauty from our system, but a refutation of
those Old World observers, who deny to our vulgar and bustling communities
the refining and elevating grace of Repose. There was something very
curious and original in his character, from which the sentiment of shame
was absent, but which was not lacking in the fine instincts of personal
cleanliness, of dress, of style. There was nothing of the rowdy in him; he
was gentle as an Italian noble in his manners: what other traits they may
have had in common, I do not know; perhaps an amiable habit of illusion.
He was always going to bring me his discharge papers, but he never did,
though he came often and had many a pleasant night's sleep at my cost.
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