London, 1836), called
me "Doctor Gahagan," and so on. It was time to put an end to these
mistakes, and I have taken the above simple remedy.
I was urged to it by a very exalted personage. Dining in August last at
the palace of the T-lr-es at Paris, the lovely young Duch-ss of Orl--ns
(who, though she does not speak English, understands it as well as I
do,) said to me in the softest Teutonic, "Lieber Herr Major, haben sie
den Ahmednuggarischen-jager-battalion gelassen?" "Warum denn?" said I,
quite astonished at her R---l H-----ss's question. The P---cess then
spoke of some trifle from my pen, which was simply signed Goliah
Gahagan.
There was, unluckily, a dead silence as H. R. H. put this question.
"Comment donc?" said H. M. Lo-is Ph-l-ppe, looking gravely at Count
Mole; "le cher Major a quitte l'armee! Nicolas donc sera maitre de
l'Inde!" H. M---- and the Pr. M-n-ster pursued their conversation in
a low tone, and left me, as may be imagined in a dreadful state of
confusion. I blushed and stuttered, and murmured out a few incoherent
words to explain--but it would not do--I could not recover my equanimity
during the course of the dinner and while endeavoring to help an English
Duke, my neighbor, to poulet a l'Austerlitz, fairly sent seven mushrooms
and three large greasy croutes over his whiskers and shirt-frill.
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