into a discordant exposition of his own important self—­that, not having examined the constitution for more nor three Sundays, they must, upon the honour of a gentleman, excuse his political speech.  “But, gents,” he says, “you all know how I trys to please ye in the way of raffles and such things, and how I throws in the belly and stomach fixins.  Now, brighten up, ye men of taste”—­Mr. Brodereque laughs satisfactorily as he surveys his crowd—­“I’m going to do the thing up brown for ye,—­to give ye a chance for a bit of bright property what ye don’t get every day; can’t scare up such property only once in a while.  It’ll make ye old fellers wink, some”—­Mr. O’Brodereque winks at several aged gentlemen, whose grey hair is figurative in the crowd—­“think about being young again.  And, my friends below thirty-my young friends—­ah, ye rascals!  I thought I’d play the tune on the right string!”—­he laughs, and puts his finger to his mouth quizzically—­“I likes to suit ye, and please ye:  own her up, now,—­ don’t I?”

“Hurrah! for Brod,—­Brod’s a trump!” again resounds from a dozen voices.

They all agree to the remark that nobody can touch the great Mr. O’Brodereque in getting up a nice bit of fun, amusing young men with more money than mind, and being in the favour of aristocratic gentlemen who think nothing of staking a couple of prime niggers on a point of faro.

Mr. O’Brodereque has been interrupted; he begs his friends will, for a moment, cease their compliments and allow him to proceed.  “Gentlemen!” he continues, “the gal’s what ye don’t get every day; and she’s as choice as she’s young; and she’s as handsome as she’s young; and for this delicious young crittur throws are only five dollars a piece.”  The sentimental southern gentleman has no reference to the throes of anguish that are piercing the wounded soul of the woman.

“A gentleman what ain’t got a five-dollar bill in his pocket better not show his winkers in this crowd.  After that, gentlemen, there’s a slap-up pony, and one of the knowinest dogs outside of a court-house.  Now,—­gents! if this ain’t some tall doings,—­some of a raffle, just take my boots and I’ll put it for Texas.  A chance for a nigger gal-a pony-a dog; who on ’arth wants more, gentlemen?” Mr. O’Brodereque again throws back his coat, shrugs his shoulders, wipes the perspiration from his brow, and is about to descend from the table.  No, he won’t come down just yet.  He has struck a vein; his friends are getting up a favourable excitement.

“Bravo! bravo!-long may General Brodereque keep the hospitable Your House!  Who wouldn’t give a vote for Brodereque at the next election?” re-echoes through the room.

“One more remark, gentlemen.”  Mr. Brodereque again wipes the perspiration from his forehead, and orders a glass of water, to loosen his oratorical organs.  He drinks the water, seems to increase in his own greatness; his red face glows redder, he makes a theatrical gesticulation with his right hand, crumples his hair into curious points, and proceeds:—­“The lucky man what gets the gal prize is to treat the crowd!” This is seconded and carried by acclamation, without a dissenting voice.