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- 2026-01-30T03:48:16.153Z
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- impatient jamb of the mob, who, otherwise, might have instantaneously
converted the Charity into a Pillage. Another body of gowned and gilded
officials distributed the broken meats--the cold victuals and crumbs of
kings. One after another the beggars held up their dirty blue tickets,
and were served with the plundered wreck of a pheasant, or the rim of a
pasty--like the detached crown of an old hat--the solids and meats
stolen out.
‘What a noble charity!’ whispered my guide. ‘See that pasty now,
snatched by that pale girl; I dare say the Emperor of Russia ate of that
last night.’
‘Very probably,’ murmured I; ‘it looks as though some omnivorous emperor
or other had had a finger in that pie.’
‘And see yon pheasant too--there--_that_ one--the boy in the torn shirt
has it now--look! The Prince Regent might have dined off that.’
The two breasts were gouged ruthlessly out, exposing the bare bones,
embellished with the untouched pinions and legs.
‘Yes, who knows!’ said my guide, ‘His Royal Highness the Prince Regent
might have eaten of that identical pheasant.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ murmured I, ‘he is said to be uncommonly fond of the
breast. But where is Napoleon’s head in a charger? I should fancy _that_
ought to have been the principal dish.’
‘You are merry. Sir, even Cossacks are charitable here in Guildhall.
Look! the famous Platoff, the Hetman himself--(he was here last night
with the rest)--no doubt he thrust a lance into yon fat pork-pie there.
Look! the old shirtless man has it now. How he licks his chops over it,
little thinking of or thanking the good, kind Cossack that left it him!
Ah! another--a stouter has grabbed it. It falls; bless my soul!--the
dish is quite empty--only a bit of the hacked crust.’
‘The Cossacks, my friend, are said to be immoderately fond of fat,’
observed I. ‘The Hetman was hardly so charitable as you thought.’
‘A noble charity, upon the whole, for all that. See, even Gog and Magog
yonder, at the other end of the hall, fairly laugh out their delight at
the scene.’
‘But don’t you think, though,’ hinted I, ‘that the sculptor, whoever he
was, carved the laugh too much into a grin--a sort of sardonical grin?’
‘Well, that’s as you take it, sir. But see--now I’d wager a guinea the
Lord Mayor’s lady dipped her golden spoon into yonder golden-hued jelly.
See, the jelly-eyed old body has slipped it, in one broad gulp, down his
throat.’
‘Peace to that jelly!’ breathed I.
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