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"Lord and Lady Wyebridge and suite, Lady Zedland and her family." "Hallo! here's Cutler of the Onety-oneth, and MacMull of the Greens, en route to Noirbourg," says Hicks, confidentially. "Know MacMull? Devilish good fellow such a fellow to smoke." Lankin, too, reads and grins.
Perkins's, being in conversation with a charming young creature who knows all my favorite passages in Tennyson, and takes a most delightful little line of opposition in the Church controversy just as we were in the very closest, dearest, pleasantest part of the talk, comes up young Hotspur yonder, and whisks her away in a polka. What have you and I to do with polkas, Lankin?
It is to use against these, especially, that Scorn and Satire were invented." "And the animal you attack," says Lankin, "is provided with a hide to defend him it is a common ordinance of nature." And so we pass by tower and town, and float up the Rhine. We don't describe the river. Who does not know it?
Monsieur Kewsy, Conseiller de S. M. la Reine d'Angleterre. Mrs. Kewsy, three Miss Kewsys. And to this list Lankin, laughing, had put down his own name, and that of the reader's obedient servant, under the august autograph of Lady Kicklebury, who signed for herself, her son-in-law, and her suite. Yes, we all flock the one after the other, we faithful English folks.
And when I said that Lankin knew more Greek, and more Latin, and more law, and more history, and more everything, than all the passengers put together, she vouchsafed to look at him with interest, and enter into a conversation with my modest friend the Serjeant. If our matrons are virtuous, as they are, and it is Britain's boast, permit me to say that they certainly know it.
She was kind enough to say that it was a great pleasure to meet with a literary and well-informed person that one often lived with people that did not comprehend one. She asked if my companion, that tall gentleman Mr. Serjeant Lankin, was he? was literary.
Lankin, who played only a lawyer's rubber at whist, marked the salutary change in his friend's condition; and, for my part, I hope and pray that every honest reader of this volume who plays at M. Lenoir's table will lose every shilling of his winnings before he goes away. Where are the gamblers whom we have read of? Where are the card-players whom we can remember in our early days?
It don't require much noble blood to learn the polka. If you were younger, Lankin, we might go for a shilling a night, and dance every evening at M. Laurent's Casino, and skip about in a little time as well as that fellow. Only we despise the kind of thing you know, only we're too grave, and too steady." "And too fat," whispers Lankin, with a laugh.
When Lankin and I descend to the cabin, then, the tables are full of gobbling people; and, though there DO seem to be a couple of places near Lady Kicklebury, immediately she sees our eyes directed to the inviting gap, she slides out, and with her ample robe covers even more than that large space to which by art and nature she is entitled, and calling out, "Horace, Horace!" and nodding, and winking, and pointing, she causes her son-in-law to extend the wing on his side.
He says he thinks Miss Kicklebury is a pretty little thing; that all my swans are geese; and that as for that old woman, with her airs and graces, she is the most intolerable old nuisance in the world. There is much good judgment, but there is too much sardonic humor about Lankin. He cannot appreciate women properly.
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