Rhine? Does it yearn for
Strasbourg? Does it yearn for Metz? and if not, what does it yearn for?"

He was looking straight at me when he said this, and so I answered
"Bier."

A dark scowl flitted frantically over the features of the German, but he
went right on: "Are all the longings of all these years, dating from the
birth of CHARLEMAGNE and extending through GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS to
FREDERICK the Great and WILLIAM the First, by his father on his maternal
grandmother's side, who lies in the iron coffin of the _domkirche_ at
Potsdam, whence we derive the consolidated grandeur of HOHENZOLLERN
mingling its rich ancestral dyes with the dark woof of fate to dispel
the expanding dream of German aspiration?"

I had not time to witness the effect upon FAVRE, but, gasping for
breath, I started from my seat and uttered these words, which I
remembered to have read in a German-English libretto of MARIE STUART:
"_Mein Gott, ich kenne eures Eifers reinen Trieb, Weiss, dass gediegne
Weissheit aus Euch redet!_"

It did not matter to me that FAVRE lay swooning on the floor. That the
Count glared at me savagely and crunched his jaws with maniacal energy.
My knowledge of German was up. It had caught the fierce impulse, the
majestic sweep of his ponderous linguosity. I remembered another
sentence, and hurled it wildly at him: "_Bei Gott, Du wirst, ich hoff's,
noch viele Jahre auf ihrem Grabe wandeln, ohne dass du selber sie
hinabzustuerzen brauchtest!_"

Again I looked at the Count. His jaw had ceased working, and the
expression of his eye had changed. His arm moved furtively beneath the
table. What could he be doing? Horrible moment of uncertainty. Still the
arm worked, as if tugging at something. I could stand it no longer.
Seizing the soda-water bottle, I stooped to cast the rays of the
sixpenny dip beneath the table. As I did so, a boot-heel flashed in the
air, the Count's arm descended with a terrific detonation, and I saw no
more.

(Interval of twenty-four hours.)

The result of the interview will be communicated to the American public
by a Tribune special, as soon as a carrier-pigeon can reach SMALLEY at
London. I am still suffering from a sensation of having been recently
hit,

DICK TINTO.

* * * * *

ASPIRATION.

Of all sorts of people in the world, the Cockney has the queerest
notions about vegetable nature. Show him the first letter of the
alphabet, for instance, and he pronounces it