WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING

IT'S on my visiting cards sure enough (and it's them that's all o'

pink satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the

intheristhin words, "Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton

Row, Russell Square, Parrish o' Bloomsbury." And shud ye be wantin' to

diskiver who is the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot

tun in the houl city o' Lonon--why it's jist mesilf. And fait that same

is no wonder at all at all (so be plased to stop curlin your nose), for

every inch o' the six wakes that I've been a gintleman, and left aff

wid the bogthrothing to take up wid the Barronissy, it's Pathrick that's

been living like a houly imperor, and gitting the iddication and the

graces. Och! and wouldn't it be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye

cud lay your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,

when he is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping into the

Brisky for the drive into the Hyde Park. But it's the illigant big

figgur that I ave, for the rason o' which all the ladies fall in love

wid me. Isn't it my own swate silf now that'll missure the six fut, and

the three inches more nor that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly

will proportioned all over to match? And it is ralelly more than three

fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the little ould furrener

Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that's a oggling and

a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty widdy

Misthress Tracle that's my own nixt-door neighbor, (God bliss her!)

and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the little

spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a

The Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Volume 5