in' in th' Constitution to prevint me
fr'm bein' a king, an I looked forward to th' time whin I'd turn th'
Illinye Cinthral deepo into a rile palace an' rule me subjicks,
ye'ersilf among thim, with a high hand. I'd be a just but marciful
monarch. No wan that come to th' palace wud go away empty handed. I'd
always lave thim a little something. Divvle a bit iv a cabinet I'd have,
but I'd surround mesilf with th' best thrained flattherers that cud be
hired f'r love or money, an' no wan wud tell me th' truth, an' I'd live
an' die happy. I'd show these modhern kings how a king ought to behave.
Ye wudden't see Martin I, iv beloved mim'ry, runnin' around like a hired
entertainer, wan day doin' th wurruk iv a talkative bricklayer at th'
layin' iv a cornerstone, another day presidin' over a bankit iv th'
Amalgamated Society iv Mannyfacthrers iv Hooks-an'-Eyes or racin' horses
with Boots Durnell an' Charlie Ox or waitin' out in th' rain f'r a
balloon to come down that's stuck on a church steeple forty miles away.
No, sir, I'd niver appear in public but wanst a year, an' thin I'd
blindfold me lile subjicks so that they'd stay lile. An' I'd niver open
me mouth excipt to command music an' dhrink. But th' low taste iv kings
has rooned th' business as a pursoot f'r gintlemen, an' to-day I'd think
twict befure takin' th' job. 'Tis as preecaryous as a steeple jack's,
an' no more permanent thin a Rosenfelt holdover undher Taft. If a king
goes out an' looks haughty some wan iv his subjicks fires a gas pipe
bomb at him, an' if he thries to be janial he's li'ble to be slapped on
th' back in th' paddock an' called 'Joe.'

"Look at me frind, Abdul Hamid. Whin I dhreamed iv bein' king, sometimes
I let me mind run on till I had mesilf promoted to be Sultan iv Turkey.
There, me boy, was a job that always plazed me. It was well paid, it
looked to be permanent, and I thought it about th' best situation in th'
wurruld. Th' Sultan was a kind iv a combination iv pope an' king. If he
didn't like ye, he first excommunicated ye an' thin he sthrangled ye.
There, thinks I to mesilf, there he sets, th' happy old ruffyan, on a
silk embroidered lounge, in his hand-wurruked slippers, with his legs
curled up undher him, a turban on his head, a crooked soord in his lap,
a pitcher iv sherbet (which is th' dhrink in thim parts) at his elbow, a
pipestem like a hose in his hand, while nightingales whistle in th'
cypress threes in th' garden an' beautiful Circassyan