kahs, and the Punjaub!

And so you proceed, dreamily following out in fancy the hints each
course supplies, and roving with your cutlets to the "cattle upon a
thousand hills," or dallying with the dessert to the orange-groves of
Zaute or Sicily.

I do love all this. The bouquet of my Bordeaux brings back the Rhone, as
the dry muscat of my Johannisberg pictures the vine-clad cliffs of the
Vaterland, with a long diminuendo train of thought about Metternich
and the Holy Alliance--the unlucky treaty of '15--Vienna--Madame
Schrader--and Castelli.

And how pleasantly and nationally does one come back with the port to
our "ancient ally, Portugal," with a mind-painted panorama of Torres
Vedras and the Douro,--with Black Horse Square and the Tagus,--"the
Duke" ever and anon flitting across the scene, and making each glass you
carry to your lips a heartfelt "long life to him!"

Alas and alas! such prandial delights were not for me; I must dine for
twelve cents, or, by accepting the brilliant entertainment announced
yonder, price half-a-dollar, keep Lent the rest of the week.

The temptation to which I allude ran thus:--

Ladies and Gentlemen's Grand Ordinary of all Nations

At 5 o'clock precisely.

Thumbo-rig--Mint julep--and a Ball. The "Half-dollar."

Monsieur Palamede de Rosanne directs the Ceremonies.

If there was a small phrase in the aforesaid not perfectly intelligible,
it seemed, upon the principle of the well-known adage, only to heighten
the inducement. The "Thumbo-rig" above might mean either a new potation
or a new dance. Still, conceding this unknown territory, there was
quite sufficient in the remainder of the advertisement to prove a strong
temptation. The house, too, had a pretentious air about it that promised
well. There was a large bow-window, displaying a perfect landscape of
rounds and sirloins, with a tasteful drapery of sausages overhead;
while a fragrant odor of rum, onions, fresh crabs, cheese, salt cod, and
preserved ginger made the very air ambrosial.

As I stood and sniffed, my resolution staggered under the assaults made
on eye, nose, and palate, a very smartly-dressed female figure crossed
the way, holding up her dress full an inch or so higher than even
the mud required, and with a jaunty air displayed a pair of very pink
stockings on very well-turned legs. I believe--I 'm not sure, but
I fear--the pink stockings completed what the pickled beef began.