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Page 12
But DONNERWITZ is not only a MOLTKE, he is also a BISMARCK; flushed
and moist with exertion, he has foreseen this move; it is the hour of
that inevitable "_Bavaroise_"; the fork has succeeded to the knife:
his mouth is at last free to confabulate with his neighbour--the Lady
from Chicago.
"Wal, I call that slap-up rude," I hear her remark. "In Amur'ca we
should just hev' him removed; but Englishmen are built that way; they
fancy, I s'pose, they discovered CO-LUMBUS;" and then DONNERWITZ
leans over the table and, grasping the united weapons of fork,
knife, and spoon, addresses me with effervescent deliberation.
"Pardon,--Mister,--but--dis--leddy,--haf--gatarrh; in a Sherman
shentleman's house--most--keep--first--de--leddy zimmer; so!" I
don't fully understand, but I feel that my chivalry is impugned. My
confederates, too, round upon me; "Of course," they whisper, "had no
idea the lady was an invalid." The brutes! I stutter an apology, and
"climb down;" the windows are again hermetically sealed; and, as I
slink away. I hear "_Viva_!" "_Hoch_!" and clinking glasses. Then
ADOLF hurries up surreptitiously, and whispers, "Tell you vat, Sare:
to-morrer you shoost dine on de terass; dere, plenty breeze, hein?"
"Plenty breeze!"--and you pay three francs extra, and catch a cold.
* * * * *
SIGH NO MORE, LOTTIE.
["The disinfecting process has ruined all the dresses of Miss
COLLINS."--_New York Telegram_.]
Sigh no more, LOTTIE, sigh no more,
Those gowns have gone for ever;
You've cut some capers on that shore
That you expected never;
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
To Tarara--boom--de nonny.
Sing that vile ditty yet once more,
And win almighty dollars
From Yankees who have spoilt your store
Of frocks, frills, cuffs and collars;
The air will run in their heads like one
O'clock, till it makes the same ache.
While on you shines prosperity's sun.
Your Tarara-boom-de hay make!
* * * * *
AT THE PATTENMAKERS' BANQUET.--At the Court Dinner of the
Pattenmakers, held at the Metropole. the eulogies of the Worshipful
Master, Sir AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS (now Master of Horse at Drury Lane),
were plentiful, and he had a considerable amount of _patten_ on the
back from all his guests. The great dish of the evening was _Partridge
au Patten_, an English substitute for _Perdrix au chou_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FANCY PORTRAIT.]
OUR GRAND YOUNG GARDNER (HERBERT II.),
IN HIS NEW CHARACTER OF THE MINISTER OF AGRICULTURE.
(_With Song_)--"_Here's to the Health of the Parley Mow_!"
* * * * *
SONNET ON CHILLON.
(_WHERE THE ELECTRIC LIGHT IS NOW INSTALLED IN THE DUNGEON OF
BONIVARD._)
Electric lighting, dear to modern mind,
Bright in this dungeon! Switzerland, thou art
Too mad for things quite _fin-de-si�cle_ smart!
Surely the trains, that rumble just behind,
And Vevey tramcars, in my thoughts consigned
To even hotter place, had been enough
To scare SAND, HUGO, SHELLEY, in a huff;
Make BYRON cast his poem to the wind!
Chillon, thy prison may become a place
With little marble tables in a row,
Where tourists, dressed with artless English grace,
May drink their _bock_ or _caf�_ down below,
And foreign penknives rapidly efface
The boasted names this light is meant to show.
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