194 A FLORIDA SHRINE. 
though it is rather the way of immigrants, 
perhaps, not to refuse political responsibili- 
ties. 
Naturally, I remembered these things as 
I stood in front of “the big house” —a 
story-and-a-half cottage —amid the flower- 
ing shrubs. Here lived once the son of the 
King of Naples; himself a Prince, and — 
worthy son of a worthy sire — alderman and 
then mayor of the city of Tallahassee. Thus 
did an uncompromising democrat pay court 
to the shades of Royalty, while a mocking- 
bird sang from a fringe-bush by the gate, 
and an oriole flew madly from tree to tree 
in pursuit of a fair creature of the reluctant 
Sex. 
The inconsistency, if such it was, was 
quickly punished. For, alas! when I spoke 
of my morning’s pilgrimage to an old resi- 
dent of the town, he told me that Murat 
never lived in the house, nor anywhere else 
in Tallahassee, and of course was never its 
postmaster, alderman, or mayor. The Prin- 
cess, he said, built the house after her hus- 
band’s death, and lived there, a widow. I 
appealed to the guide-book. My informant 
sneered, — politely, and brought me a 
