Burlesques William Makepeace Thackeray

21
He was an old man—an old man evidently, too, of the Hebrew race—the light of his eyes
was unfathomable—about his mouth there played an inscrutable smile. He had a cotton
umbrella, and old trousers, and old boots, and an old wig, curling at the top like a rotten old
pear.
He sat down, as if tired, in the first seat at hand, as Rafael made him the lowest reverence.
"I am tired," says he; "I have come in fifteen hours. I am ill at Neuilly," he added with a
grin. "Get me some eau sucree, and tell me the news, Prince de Mendoza. These bread
rows; this unpopularity of Guizot; this odious Spanish conspiracy against my darling
Montpensier and daughter; this ferocity of Palmerston against Coletti, makes me quite ill.
Give me your opinion, my dear duke. But ha! whom have we here?"
The august individual who had spoken, had used the Hebrew language to address Mendoza,
and the Lord Codlingsby might easily have pleaded ignorance of that tongue. But he had
been at Cambridge, where all the youth acquire it perfectly.
"SIRE," said he, "I will not disguise from you that I know the ancient tongue in which you
speak. There are probably secrets between Mendoza and your Maj—"
"Hush!" said Rafael, leading him from the room. "Au revoir, dear Codlingsby. His Majesty
is one of US," he whispered at the door; "so is the Pope of Rome; so is . . ."—a whisper
concealed the rest.
"Gracious powers! is it so?" said Codlingsby, musing. He entered into Holywell Street. The
sun was sinking.
"It is time," said he, "to go and fetch Armida to the Olympic."
PHIL FOGARTY.
A TALE OF THE FIGHTING ONETY-ONETH.
BY HARRY ROLLICKER.
I.
The gabion was ours. After two hours' fighting we were in possession of the first
embrasure, and made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would admit. Jack