' 'And what may that be?' said the prince. 'The wing of a
wool-bird,' replied the facetious colonel. It was in vain the prince
and duke conjectured what this strange title could import, when George
appeared before them with a tremendous large red baking dish, ~218~~
smoking hot, in which was supported a fine well-browned shoulder of
mutton, dropping its rich gravy over some crisp potatoes. The prince and
his brother enjoyed the joke amazingly, and they have since been heard
to declare, they never ate a heartier meal in their life, or one (from
its novelty to them in the state in which it was served up), which they
have relished more. George had, however, reserved a _bonne bouche_, in a
superb dessert and most exquisite wines, for which the prince had heard
he was famous, and which was, perhaps, the principal incitement to the
honour conferred."
After a night spent in the utmost hilarity, heightened by the vivacity
and good-humour of my associates, to which might be added, the full
gratification of my prevailing _penchant_ for the observance of
character, we were on the point of departing, when Transit, ever on the
alert in search of variety, observed a figure whom (in his phrase) he
had long wished to book; in a few moments a sketch of this eccentric
personage was before us.
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