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. Do lunatic asylums exist in vain? Men of Tours,
is there a 'jerkist' among you?"

They must have observed that my feelings were moved, for they came
between me and the officer, as if to protect the latter. 'Twas a kind
movement, but useless; as I couldn't have hurt him.

"Monsieur GAMBETTA," I then went on to say, "don't you think that this
horrible epidemic of gas, that is now filling with its deleterious
effluvia the brains and the throat of the French Government, ought to be
stopped? Don't you think, Monsieur GAMBETTA, that you, yourself, could