And then ounly percave the cuteness of the swate angel, for no sooner did
      she obsarve that I was afther the squazing of her flipper, than she up wid
      it in a jiffy, and put it away behind her back, jist as much as to say,
      “Now thin, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, there’s a bitther chance for ye,
      mavourneen, for it’s not altogether the gentaal thing to be afther the
      squazing of my flipper right full in the sight of that little furrenner
      Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns.”


      Wid that I giv’d her a big wink jist to say, “lit Sir Pathrick alone for
      the likes o’ them thricks,” and thin I wint aisy to work, and you’d have
      died wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly I slipped my right arm
      betwane the back o’ the sofy, and the back of her leddyship, and there,
      sure enough, I found a swate little flipper all a waiting to say, “the tip
      o’ the mornin’ to ye, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt.” And wasn’t it
      mesilf, sure, that jist giv’d it the laste little bit of a squaze in the
      world, all in the way of a commincement, and not to be too rough wid her
      leddyship? and och, botheration, wasn’t it the gentaalest and dilikittest
      of all the little squazes that I got in return? “Blood and thunder, Sir
      Pathrick, mavourneen,” thinks I to mesilf, “fait it’s jist the mother’s
      son of you, and nobody else at all at all, that’s the handsomest and the
      fortunittest young bog-throtter that ever cum’d out of Connaught!” And
      with that I givd the flipper a big squaze, and a big squaze it was, by the
      powers, that her leddyship giv’d to me back. But it would ha split the
      seven sides of you wid the laffin’ to behould, jist then all at once, the
      consated behavior of Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns. The likes o’ sich a
      jabbering, and a smirking, and a parley-wouing as he begin’d wid her
      leddyship, niver was known before upon arth; and divil may burn me if it
      wasn’t me own very two peepers that cotch’d him tipping her the wink out
      of one eye. Och, hon! if it wasn’t mesilf thin that was mad as a Kilkenny
      cat I shud like to be tould who it was! “Let me infarm you, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns,” said I, as purlite as iver
      ye seed, “that it’s not the gintaal thing at all at all, and not for the
      likes o’ you inny how, to be afther the oggling and a-goggling at her
      leddyship in that fashion,” and jist wid that such another squaze as it
      was I giv’d her flipper, all as much as to say, “isn’t it Sir Pathrick
      now, my jewel, that’ll be able to the protectin’ o’ you, my darlint?” and
      then there cum’d another squaze back, all by way of the answer. “Thrue for
      you, Sir Pathrick,” it said as plain as iver a squaze said in the world,
      “Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen, and it’s a proper nate gintleman
      ye are—that’s God’s truth,” and with that she opened her two
      beautiful peepers till I belaved they wud ha’ cum’d out of her hid
      althegither and intirely, and she looked first as mad as a cat at Mounseer
      Frog, and thin as smiling as all out o’ doors at mesilf. “Thin,” says he, the willian, “Och hon! and a wolly-wou, pully-wou,” and
      then wid that he shoved up his two shoulders till the divil the bit of his
      hid was to be diskivered, and then he let down the two corners of his
      purraty-trap, and thin not a haporth more of the satisfaction could I git
      out o’ the spalpeen. Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was unreasonable mad thin,
      and the more by token that the Frinchman kipt an wid his winking at the
      widdy; and the widdy she kept an wid the squazing of my flipper, as much
      as to say, “At him again, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, mavourneen:” so I just
      ripped out wid a big oath, and says I:

      “Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody noun!”—and
      jist thin what d’ye think it was that her leddyship did? Troth she jumped
      up from the sofy as if she was bit, and made off through the door, while I
      turned my head round afther her, in a complate bewilderment and
      botheration, and followed her wid me two peepers. You percave I had a
      reason of my own for knowing that she couldn’t git down the stares
      althegither and intirely; for I knew very well that I had hould of her
      hand, for the divil the bit had I iver lit it go. And says I:

      “Isn’t it the laste little bit of a mistake in the world that
      ye’ve been afther the making, yer leddyship? Come back now,
      that’s a darlint, and I’ll give ye yur flipper.” But
      aff she wint down the stairs like a shot, and thin I turned round to the
      little Frinch furrenner. Och hon! if it wasn’t his spalpeeny little
      paw that I had hould of in my own—why thin—thin it
      wasn’t—that’s all. And maybe it wasn’t mesilf that jist died then outright wid the laffin’,
      to behold the little chap when he found out that it wasn’t the widdy at
      all at all that he had had hould of all the time, but only Sir Pathrick
      O’Grandison. The ould divil himself niver behild sich a long face as he
      pet an! As for Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, it wasn’t for the
      likes of his riverence to be afther the minding of a thrifle of a mistake. Ye may jist say, though (for it’s God’s thruth), that afore I left hould
      of the flipper of the spalpeen (which was not till afther her leddyship’s
      futman had kicked us both down the stairs), I giv’d it such a nate little
      broth of a squaze as made it all up into raspberry jam. “Woully wou,” says he, “pully wou,” says he—“Cot tam!”


      And that’s jist the thruth of the rason why he wears his lift hand in a
      sling. BON-BON. Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,
          Je suis plus savant que Balzac—
          Plus sage que Pibrac;
          Mon bras seul faisant l’attaque
          De la nation Cossaque,
          La mettroit au sac;
          De Charon je passerois le lac,
          En dormant dans son bac;
          J’irois au fier Eac,
          Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,
          Présenter du tabac. —_French Vaudeville_


      That Pierre Bon-Bon was a _restaurateur_ of uncommon qualifications,
      no man who, during the reign of——, frequented the little Câfé
      in the cul-de-sac Le Febre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at
      liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled
      in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially
      undeniable.