window-shutters and the paint peeling off in discoloured flakes,
lived one of the last of the war governors.

The South has forgotten the enmity of the great conflict, but it
refuses to abandon its old traditions and idols. In "Governor"
Pemberton, as he was still fondly called, the inhabitants of
Elmville saw the relic of their state's ancient greatness and glory.
In his day he had been a man large in the eye of his country. His
state had pressed upon him every honour within its gift. And now
when he was old, and enjoying a richly merited repose outside the
swift current of public affairs, his townsmen loved to do him
reverence for the sake of the past.

The Governor's decaying "mansion" stood upon the main street of
Elmville within a few feet of its rickety paling-fence. Every
morning the Governor would descend the steps with extreme care and
deliberation--on account of his rheumatism--and then the click of
his gold-headed cane would be heard as he slowly proceeded up the
rugged brick sidewalk. He was now nearly seventy-eight, but he had
grown old gracefully and beautifully. His rather long, smooth hair
and flowing, parted whiskers were snow-white. His full-skirted
frock-croak was always buttoned snugly about his tall, spare
figure. He wore a high, well-kept silk hat--known as a "plug" in
Elmville--and nearly always gloves. His manners were punctilious,
and somewhat overcharged with courtesy.

The Governor's walks up Lee Avenue, the principal street, developed
in their course into a sort of memorial, triumphant procession.
Everyone he met saluted him with profound respect. Many would remove
their hats. Those who were honoured with his personal friendship