Life — April 15, 1886 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

- LIFE: Battenberg disguised in a soaped wig and a pair of John Brown's ex-Highland trousers, with frills on the bottom, had to wait on the table. Queen was affability itself: She first addressed herself to Waddington : “Voulez vous de soupgons ?"” Poor Queen! I felt sorry for her. Even I, unaccustomed as I am to Parisian ways, knew that soupgons was n't French for soup. Waddington looked puzzled, and replied that it looked more like snow, he thought. To cover her mother’s embarrassment Princess Battenberg here remarked to her poor, but honest, husband : “ Henry, give Mr. Waddington a glass of champignon.” Mrs. Battenberg has a great deal of cordon bleu and knows what to do under trying circumstances. Mr. Phelps all this time had been eating and had reached the Baked Bean course before the rest had got past the Filet of Flounder. “It seems to me, Mr. Phelps, that you are somewhat ahead,” remarked Victoria. “Don't mention it, madame,” he replied, “I'll begin again !"" and in spite of the Queen's expostulations he did. Mr. Waddington made some remark just then which I did not quite catch, but it sounded like: “ Du beurre sil vous plait.” Battenberg gave his knowledge of the language away by opening a bottle of beer for the Envoy, which, being distinc- tively a Dutch beverage, was regarded by M. Waddington as a gross insult to him and his nation. If it had n’t been for Mr. Phelps and myself, who offered to settle the difficulty by drinking the beer ourselves, the relations between France and England would have been very severely strained, and a blood- less war might have been inflicted upon the world. Everything went along smoothly after this until Mr. Phelps began to'get suspicious on the subject of the pie. It was down on the bill of fare, but somehow or other it didn’t come on the table. I had noticed this myself, but did not wish to precipitate a conflict and kept quiet. Not so Mr- Phelps. “Look here, Queen,” said he, ‘no duplicity with me, if you please. Either there is pie or there isn't pie. There's no dilemma to this alternative. I've started this meal seven times and balked at the pie point every time.” “Tam sure, Minister Phelps,” replied the Queen, “ that there was pie when this dejornatre begun, but as to whether there #s pie now I cannot rightly say. William Henry Mr. Beatrice Battenberg !" she said, sternly. “Yessum,” stammered the unfortunate menial-in-law. “ Is-s-s-s there any pie?” “ Ye-ye-yessum—I mean nome,” stuttered the now knee- knocking Battenberg. “ And why, George W. Battenberg, is there no pie ?” The poor wretched youth, with the crumbs of the last mince pie still clinging to the corners of his mouth, turned pale as a ghost, but with an almost heroic effort he drew himself up to his full height and said : 2214 “ Mother-in-law, I cannot tell a lie. M. Waddington ate it !” Here at last was a straightout statement susceptible either of proof or disproof. “ We'll see about this,” scornfully returned Mrs. O’Guelph, and then, turning to the French ambassador, she asked : “ Monsieur, esserker vous gui a consommé la jomble de Mince?" “ Dieu! gue vous etes belle!" affably returned M. Wad- dington, disliking to acknowledge that he was unacquainted with the Greek tongue. “Well,” rejoined the Queen, “I shouldn't think you ‘d acknowledge it so unblushingly. It’s well for Battenberg you do, though.” Matters became so cool after this that the ice-cream had to be eaten with the sugar tongs, while the relations between the three nations were so palpably strained that there were no grounds left ia the international fluid on which to base a pleasant evening, so we all went home. Before I left, Her Majesty asked me if I would n’t expose a heartless American swindle in LiFe, and on my promising to do so she informed me that a Yankee wrote to her last month and said that for £1 he would tell her how to make her fortune. She sent the coin over, and received a telegram marked collect in return. It read: Write autographs and sell them to fools. This business of guying a poor, unfortunate, unprotected “old woman ought to be stopped. Carlyle Smith. THE PATENT ROLLER ASPHALT YACHT. E roiest mort. Vive le rot!” Roller skating is dead; but the rink still lives, rejuvenated by the introduction of Mr, Frost I. Sickles's Patent Rol- ler Asphalt Yacht, which boat bears, the same telation to ice yacht- ing that roller. does to ice skating, and brings winter cruising to our very doors. With it, New York will henceforth be as desirable a winter resort as Pokeepsie. = The new asphalt yacht will run on five-inch triple-greased rollers; and ought to beat the record of its ice rivals—some enthusiasts going comicbooks.com