Alfred; or, The Adventures of a French Gentleman — page 183: what you’re looking at

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152 ALFRED ; OR ADVENTURES i expected to meet, wasn’t yet arrived, I says to myself, says I, ‘Let us go and take a bason of soup,’ says I, ‘ at Birch’s; cos vy, I always patronises the Cock, and this time we'll give t’other a chance. Live and let live,’ says I. So with this here intention | goes to Birch’s, and orders a bason of hox-tail, which is my favourite beverage, with a little drop of hiced punch to wash it down. Now, my Lord Mayor, there ain’t a more quieter and tranquiller person in existence than your humble servant as is speaking: | seldom opens my mouth; and when I does, my language is as con- cise as possible.” ‘‘ So I perceive,” said the magistrate drily. ‘¢Then that’s positive proof, your lordship, since your lordship acknowledges it yourself,” cried Mr. Higgins with a species of triumph depicted on his countenance. ‘ Well, as I was saying, I went into Birch’s, and sate down at a table jist as gravely as your lordship at the bench there, or an owl in an ivy bush. I had not been long engaged in discussing my hox-tail and sipping my punch, when I hears a gallows row at the door, and I sees that insinivating Frenchman, with his castor a one side, and his hair sticking out like a mop, enter the inner room with a hawful swagger. ‘Oh! oh!’ says I to myself, says I, ‘ here’s summat ilash from Frogland :’ but I says nothing aloud, your lordship, although I takes notice of every thing wot passes. So that there Mounseer bounces in, set- ting us all agog; and he orders his soup, which was turtle; and while the waiter was a-fetching it, he stares at me in the most himperant manner in the world, just as if my face was a bit more comical than your lordship’s, or any other poor ignorant creature in the world. I twigs my fine gentleman’s mincing looks and flagrant manners; for I have heard speak of those confounded dancing- masters on t’other side of the water; but I still preserves my gravity. Presently Mounseer’s soup arrives, and he forgets that it is steaming-hot; so he claps a spoonful to his ugly mouth, and burns himself, as you might naturally suppose. Down drops the spoon—out he spits the soup—rap goes his hand on the table—and plump falls his foct on my corns. Now I don’t know whether your lordship be blessed with corns—but I has ’em in abundance; and not being before-hand in an over good humour with our friend there, J was in a devil of a rage, particularly when he burst out into a horse-laugh, as if it were a devilish good joke. This irri- tated me confoundedly—and I doesn’t deny having lifted up my fist and knocked the Frenchman down as clean as a whistle. That's the plain unwarnished truth, your lordship—or may I be dam called a liar.” When this plain and concise tale was brought to a conclusion, the Lord Mayor questioned Belle-Rose; but finding that they could not understand each other, an interpreter was sent for, and through his agency, the following dialogue took place. ‘¢ What is your name? ” ‘¢ Pierre Count d’Elsigny,” was the reply. «Are you a refugee, on account of political matters, or are you a resident in England for your own pleasure?” Gomicbooks. Go