After having bestowed a wild
inexpressive stare at the cannibals assembled, male and
female,--depositing his Vyse, running his digits through his perfumed
hair, raising his shirt-collar so as to form an angle of forty-five with
his purple _Gros de Naples_ cravat, and applying his gold-turned
snuff-box to his nose, Money (who has lived long in England, and speaks
its language well) ventured to address him, by demanding if he should
place a cover for him. "Sar!--your--appellation--if--you please?" the
drawling and affected response of the fop. "Money, Sir." "the sign of the
place--the thing--the _auberge_?" "The Three Crowns, Sir." "Money of
the country, I presume!--Good--stop--put that down--Mem:" and he took his
tablets from his pocket. "Money--Three Crowns--Capital that--will do for
Dibdin,--if not, give it Theodore Hook. And the name of your--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.
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