your town,
my man?" "Vevay, Sir!" "And that liquid concern I see from the
wind_ar_?" "The Lake, Sir--the Lake of Geneva." "Good gracious!
_all_ Geneva?" "Otherwise termed the Leman, Sir." "Lemon! ha! a sort
of gin-punch, I presume--acidulated blue-ruin--Vastly vulgar, by
Petersham--only fit for the Cider-cellar, Three Crowns--And
that--that--white thing there on the other side of the punch-bowl, Money?"
"That is Gin-goulph, Sir." "Gin-gulp! appropriate certainly, but
de-ci-ded-ly--low." "Will you please, Sir, to dine? dinner is on the
table." "Din_nar_! Crockford, be good to us!--Why--why--it is
scarcely more than noon, Crowns.--What would Lady Diana say?--But true! I
rose at eight--so, I think, I will patronize you, my good
fell_ar_--Long journey that from _Low_san--queer name for a
place so high;--Vastly bad country this of yours, Crowns.--What are all
those stunted poles, like _cerceau_ sticks, placed in the ground?
What do you cultivate, Crowns?" "The vine, Sir." "Wine! wine! dear me!
never knew wine grew before. In England it is a manufactory. One
moment--pardon--Mem:--Wine grows in--in--" "The Canton de Vaud, Sir." "In
the Canton de Vo,--Tell that to Carbonel and Charles Wright when I go
back. Is it Port, pray?" "No, Sir, a thin white wine." "Thin--white
--wine--runs up sticks in said Vo." "Will you permit me to help you, Sir?"
demanded Money, rather impatiently. "What have you, may I ask?"
"_Bouilli_, Sir." "Bull, what? have you no other beef?--Mem: people
living near punch-bowl eat bull beef," "There is a very nice
_culotte_, Sir, if you prefer it." "_Cu_--what, Three Crowns?
_Culotte_!--why, in France, that is--is--inexpressibles--Mem: eat
inexpressibles roasted--Breaches of taste, by Reay--the savages!--that
will do for the Bedford--mention it to Joy--the brutes!--Neither bull nor
breeches, thank you inexpressibly, Money." "A _Blanquette de Veau_,
then, if you like, Sir." "Blanket de Vo! a cover to lay, indeed, Crowns.
Mem: inhabitants of Gin stew blankets of the country, and then eat
them--the Alsatians!" "Poultry, Sir, if you desire it." "Ah! some hopes
there, Money--What is that you hold?" "A _Poularde_, Sir." "Obliged,
Crowns--no Pull-hard thank you, devilish tough I doubt--Mem: fowl called
Pull-hard at Gin--Try again, my man." "A _Dindon_ and _dans son
jus_, Sir." "Ding dong and a dancing Jew!--sort of stewed Rothschild, I
suppose--Well! if I don't mean exactly to starve, I fear I must even
venture on the