I am sorry to say it, but
the great peril of France at this moment is gas. Touching GAMBETTA. Ah!
yes, touching GAMBETTA. You may have heard that he has issued a
proclamation or two. There are depths in the soul of a Frenchman, where
the inspiration of mighty words breeds like "flies in the shambles."
Such a soul has GAMBETTA. He is all language. If you were to cut him up
in little bits and put each atom under a microscope, you would find in
every molecule the text of some proclamation. The genii of syntax and
prosody are his guardian angels, and the love of "gabble" is the be-all
and the end-all of his political existence. He loves not GARIBALDI. He
would have done violence to his grandmother rather than consent to the
invitation of the Italian liberator. For short, he calls him "GARRY."
Standing in front of the Hotel de Ville, talking to a group of eager
listeners, with his arms wildly gesticulating and his nose
contemptuously curling towards the empyrean, he asks:
"Who is this GARRY? What is he? Why is he--?"
"Stop," I calmly interpollate, "profane not the high calling of the
Italian hero with frivolous conundrums."
"Jerk that monster out of my sight!" roared GAMBETTA to a _sergent de
ville_, and pointing his long, skinny fore-finger full at me.
I turned mournfully upon the crowd, and asked in a plaintive tone:--
"You hear what he says.
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