No wan can lift a thrain betther or higher thin a free-born American lady.  At th’ side iv her majesty walked th’ beautiful Duchess iv Binkie-whistle, born Lucy hicks iv Dobbs Ferry.  Th’ Duchess’ father an’ mother come over las’ week with their respictive fam’lies, an’ it is undhershtud that wan iv th’ happiest ivints iv th’ whole glad cawrnation season was th’ determination iv Ma Hicks to devote her alimony intire to rebuildin’ th’ ancesthral mansion iv th’ jook.  Pa Hicks, not to be outdone, announced that he wud add th’ rent derived fr’m th’ ancesthral mansion iv th’ duchess, which is now used as a livery stable.

“An’ so th’ gr-reat ivint come off.  I won’t describe it to ye.  It’s been done betther thin I cud do it be a fearless press.  Ye know ye’ersilf how th’ pro-cission winded its way through th’ sthreets; how Wistminsther Abbey was crowded with peers an’ peeresses, an’ what a mighty shout wint up fr’m Willum Waldorf Astor whin he come in an’ sat on his hat near th’ dure.  It was all right.  First come th’ prelates backin’ to’rd th’ althar.  Thin all th’ jooks bowin’ low.  Thin th’ queen, attinded be a bevy iv American duchesses.  Thin th’ king lookin’ ivry inch a king—­sixty-four be sixty-two in all.  Thin th’ Rile Shoes, th’ Rile Socks, th’ Rile Collar an’ Cuffs, an’ th’ Rile Hat borne be th’ hereditary Sockbearers, Shoesters, Collariferios, an’ th’ High an’ Magnificint Lid-Lord (in chains).  Suddenly all is silent.  A hush falls on th’ assimblage, broken on’y be a low, sad cry.  Willum Waldorf Astor has fainted.

“An’ so, says th’ pa-aper, in th’ prisince iv th’ mighty dead an’ th’ mighty near dead, among th’ surroundings that recalled th’ days iv shivaree an’ in an atmosphere full iv aristocratic assocyations, on account iv th’ vintilation bein’ poor, Albert Edward Ernest Pathrick Arthur, king, definder iv th’ faith, put on his hat.  Th’ organ pealed off a solemn peal, th’ cannons boomed, th’ duchesses et hard-biled eggs out iv a paper bag, an’ a pale man in silk tights wept over th’ tomb iv Major Andhre.  It was Joseph Chote.  That night all Great Britain rejoiced, fr’m wan end iv Ireland to th’ other th’ lile popylace showed their joy an’ th’ sky was lit up be hundherds iv burnin’ barns an’ a salute iv forty-four guns was fired in th’ County Kerry at a landlord’s agent comin’ home fr’m a ball.

“I hope he’ll make a good king.  I ain’t so much down on kings as I used to be, Hinnissy.  I ain’t down on thim anny more because I don’t invy thim, an’ ye can’t be down on anny man ye don’t invy.  ‘Tis a hard job an’ a thankless wan.  A king nowadays is no more thin a hitchin’ post f’r wan pollytician afther another.  He ain’t allowed to move himsilf, but anny crazy pollytician that ties up to him is apt to pull him out be th’ roots.  He niver has anny childhood.  He’s like th’ breaker-boys in th’ mines; he’s put to wurruk larnin’ his thrade as soon as he can walk.  Whin it comes time f’r him