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We are a snug little party of a dozen, not including Herr Kupferkram and the Frau, who will insist upon waiting on us.
I suspect, however, that these remarks might not inaptly apply to the inhabitants of the British capital, as well as those of Berlin. Herr Kupferkram the elder, I have done thee wrong.
I knew a Kupferkram in Hamburg; a short, sallow man, with no beard.” “A Prussian?” “Yes.” “It cannot be that my cousin was in Hamburg and I not know it. I was there twelve months.” “Why not? A German will be anywhere in the course of twelve months except where you expect to find him.” “His name is Gottlob—Gottlob Kupferkram.” “The very man!
“Will the Herrn Tourniquet and Tuci,” said the Frau Kupferkram one morning, with a duck and a smirk, “do us the honour of supping with us this evening? There will be a few friends, for this is the ‘nahmenstag’ of our dear Gottlob, now in England.” “Liebe Frau Kupferkram, we shall be delighted!”
I dare the vicissitudes of fortune. I had a friend in Hamburg, a Frenchman, who departed thence five months ago for Berlin, under a promise to write to me at the lapse of a month. He has never written, and he is my hope. That is all. Let us go on.” “I have a cousin,” says the glovemaker, “who is a jeweller in Berlin. I will recommend you to him. His name is Kupferkram.” “Strange!
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