We came from the same old Palmetto State, the first and
the last ditch of our revolution. I give you a toast, gentlemen, to
which Mr. Hugenot will respond:
"'The Mother Country and the Colony--good luck to both!'"
"Hoorah for you!" cried Pisgah, looking the wrong way.
The glasses rattled an instant, amid iterations of "Hear! hear!" and Mr.
Hugenot, rising, as it appeared from a bandbox, carefully surveyed
himself in a mirror opposite, and touched his nose with a small nosegay.
"I feel, my friends, rather as your host than your guest to-night--"
("It isn't yesternight"--from Freckle--"it's to-morroer night.")
"For I, gentlemen, stand upon my hereditary, if not my native heath; and
you are, at most, Frenchmen by adoption. That ancestry whose deeds will
live when the present poor representative of its name is departed drew
from this martial land its blood and genius."
(Loud cries of "Gammon" from Freckle, and disapprobation from Simp.)
"From the past to the present, my friends, is a short transition. I
found you in Paris a month ago, poor and dejected. You are here
to-night, with that luxury which was your heritage. And how has it been
restored?"
("'At's so!" earnestly, from Pisgah.)
"By hard, grovelling work? Never! No contact with vulgar clay has soiled
these aristocratic hands.
Pages:
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54