The jungle stories were all right, but the African hunter was never allowed to forget that he was in the land of the hunter Boone. The very ground upon which they commemoratively wassailed had been consecrated by the footsteps of the great explorer of the West. The beastly "anthropoids" that confronted him were armed with tomahawks and guns. A salient point of difference indeed. The clever and daring Frenchman listened with smiling interest to their characteristic spurts of "brag," and was silently remarking, no doubt, its curious affinity to the gasconade of France. He seemed to feel perfectly at home. And who of us that were present can ever forget the impression of that dark, resolute face, the illumining smile, the gleaming teeth, and the kindly, humorous glance of the piercing eye? His experiences at the clubroom only partially prepared him for the peculiar impressiveness of the audience that greeted him at the stately old Courthouse. There were the same men, to be sure, handsome, graceful, courteous, smiling, and soft of speech; but the women!—with their lovely faces, their handsome dresses, their enchanting manners, their distinction, ease and charm! The Frenchman was never more of a philosopher than when he gazed upon this scene.
He told his tale of the jungle simply, but with a vividness that was realistic and startling to a degree. The fascination of the audience was complete. He not only described that strange encounter in the African forest, but he re-enacted the part, a representation which gave a curiously thrilling quality to the tale not appreciable when told in print, admirably as it is told in the author's famous book.
When the voice of the speaker ceased, as it did all too soon, the silent, fascinated audience, aroused from its strange African dream, broke into round after round of hearty, appreciative applause. For several moments the lecturer stood in a grave, thoughtful attitude, gazing intently upon the moving throng, not as though idly observing the dispersion of a village gathering, but as some philosophic tourist from another sphere, studying the aspect, the attitude, characteristic manner and physiognomical traits of an alien race. He asked but one question. Turning eagerly to the gentleman who accompanied him, he inquired with an expression of intense interest, as his glance fell upon a graceful Kentuckienne near the center of the throng—a lovely blonde with exquisite complexion, hair and eyes—"Who is our beautiful Scandinavian?"[2] The answer seemed to please him, and he walked thoughtfully toward the door, an object of respectful attention from the slow-moving throng, lingering as if it longed to stay. Though of small stature, he would have attracted attention anywhere. His figure was compact, lithe, elastic, and perfectly erect, his cranial outline (typically French) denoted intellectual strength and physical vigor, his facial contour was bold, regular, and pleasing—a singularly virile countenance softened and dignified by the discipline of thought. The crowd of which he is now the central figure is composed largely of men wholly different from Du Chaillu in air, stature, carriage, countenance, complexion, and racial type. Yet Nature seldom evolves from any source a solider bit of man than this gallant Frenchman from the heart of France.
The distinguished guest took his departure on the following day, not with a cold adieu, but with an airy au revoir—as of one who, charmed with his welcome, was meditating an early return. But was he pleased? Apparently he was, and if not, he had the Frenchman's happy art of seeming to be. If here simply for observation, he certainly found no degeneracy, but rather, we should say, certain pleasing lines of variation in the Occidental evolution of the race. It seems impossible that he should not have had a pleasant impression of his hosts—these genial sons of "Arcady," forever piping their minty elixirs with oaten straws, whose drinks even when "straightest" were not stronger than their steady heads—so hospitable to strangers, so chivalrous to women, so courteous to men, so gracious in manner, so happy in speech, so loyal to kin, so proud of their Commonwealth, their ancestral traditions, and their indomitable race. They drank naught from the skulls of their enemies, but they were adepts in filling their own. Their potations were pottle deep, and the intervals between were not needlessly prolonged. And yet they rose refreshed from their heady cups, ordered their stud a drench, and sighed for work.
KING WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.
The adventurous Frenchman was no glutton in debauch, but in a modest symposium could always hold his own, and doubtless imagined in this festal reunion of Bourbon and Champagne that he had re-discovered the Nouvelle France of the royal days when Louis le Grand was King.[3]