and, with his hat and coat on, his small bag in his hand, and quite
prepared to resume the journey, he cries, "_Allons! Petzikoff!_" (or
some such word, which I suppose to be either Russian or an ejaculation
quite new and original, but _à la Russe_, and entirely his own
invention), with the cheery and enthusiastic addition of, "Blass the
Prince of WAILES!"

"By all means," I cordially respond, for we are on a foreign soil,
where loyalty to our Royal Family is no longer a duty only, but
also a mark of patriotism, which should ever distinguish the true
Briton,--though, by the way, now I think of it, DAUBINET is a lively
Gaul. Subsequently, observing my friend DAUBINET, I find that he is
especially English in France, and peculiarly French in England. On
what is to me foreign, but to him his own native soil, he is always
bursting out into snatches of our British National Anthem, or he
sings the line above quoted. In France he will insist on talking
about London, England, Ireland, Scotland, with imitations in slang or
of brogue, as the case may be, on every possible or even impossible
opportunity; and, when the subject of conversation does not afford
him any chance for his interpolations, then, for a time, he will "lay
low," like. Brer Fox, only to startle us with some sudden outbursts
of song, generally selected from the popular English Melodies of a
byegone period, such as "_My Pretty Jane_," "_My Love is like a red,
red Rose_," or "_Good-bye, Sweetheart, good-bye_," and such-like
musical reminiscences, invariably finishing with a quotation from the
National Anthem, "_Rule Britannia_," or "Blass the Prince of WAILES!"
He is a travelling chorus.

We stop--I don't know where, as I trust entirely to my guide and
fellow-traveller--for a good twenty minutes' stuff, nominally dinner,