BACK FROM " YURRUP."

Waikato Times, Volume I, Issue 63, 24 September 1872, Page 3

BACK FROM " YURRUP."

Have you ever seen a family of geese just back from Europe—or Yurrup, as they pronounce it? They never talk to you, of course, being strangers, but they talk to each other and at you till you are pretty nearly distracted with their clatter, till you are sick of their ocean experiences, tluhr mispronounced foreign names, tlieir dukes and emperors, their trivial adventures, their pointless- reminiscences—till you are sick of their imbecile faces and tlieir relentless clack, and wish it had pleased Providence to leave the clapper out of their empty skulls, I travelled with such a family one eternal day, from New York to Boston, last week. They had spent just a year in " Yurrup," and were returning home to Boston. Papa Miid little and looked bored—he had simply been down to New York to receive and cart home his cargo of travelled imbccilit;. Sister Angclinc, u«'ed 253; sister Augusta, aged 25; and brother Charles, aged M, did the conversational drivel, and mamma purred and admired, and threw in some help when occasion olfered, in the way of rememberin" some I*'rendi barber's—l should say some French count's mime—when they pretended to have forgotten it. They occupied the choice seats in the parlour of the drawingroom car, and for twelve hours I sat opposite to them—was their vis-a-vis, they would have said in their charming French way. Au-oastu: "Plague that na.hsty (nasty) _ steamer! I've the headache yet, she rolled so the fifth night out." A lifeline : " And well you may, I never saw such a iiiihstv old tub. I never want to go in the Ville do Paris again. Why didn't we go over to London and rmie in the Scotia?" Aug: "Because we were fools!" [I endorsed that sentiment.] Angle: " fkistie, what made Count Nixkumarousc drive off looking so blue, that, last Thursday in Pa'.ry ? (Parts she meant.) Ah, own i.p. now?" (tapping her arm so roguishly with her ivorv fan.) Aug : " Now, Angle, how you talk! I fold 'the nahsty creature I would not receive his attentions any longer. And the old duke, his father, kept boring me about him and his two million francs a year till I sent him off with a (leu in his ear." Chorus : " Ke-he-he ! Ha-ha-ha ! " Charles : [Pulling a small silken cloak to pieces.] " An.'io, where'd you get thi* cheap thing ?"' Ang:o : " You, Chollv, let that alone ! Cheap ! Well, how could 1 help'it? There we were, tied up in Switzerland -just down from Mon Blong (Mont Blanc, doubtless)—couldn't buv anything in those nahsty shops «o fir away from PaiVy I had to put up with that slimpsy forly-do'lar rag, but bless you, I c mhln't go naked !" Chorus : " Ke-hehe ! " Aug : " Guess who I was thinking of ? Those ignorant persons wo saw first in Tlome and afterwards in Venice—those " Angie : "Oh, ha-ha-ha! He-he-he! Tt was so funnv! Papa, one of them called the Santa della Spiggiola the Santa dclla Spizziola! FTa-ha-ha! And she thonght, it was Canova that did Michael Angelo's Moses! Only think of it ?— Canova, a sculptor, and the Moses a picture! T thought I should die! I guess I let them see by the way I laurrhed that thev'd made fools of themselves, because thev blushed and sneaked off." [Papa laughed faintlv, but not with the easy grace of a man who was certain he knew what he was laughing about.] Aw*. •• "Why, Chollv 1 Where did you get those nnhsfv Beaumarehais 'gloves ? Well, I wouldn't if I were'vou!" Mamma: [With uplifted hands.] " Beaumarehais, my son ! " Angie : " Beaumarehais ! Why, how can you! Nobody in Pary wears those naslit v things hut the commonest people." Charles : " They are a rum lot, hut then Tom Blennerhassett cave 'em to me—he wanted to do something or other to currv favour, I s'rose." Angie : " Tom Blennerhasset!" Aug.: "Tom Blennerhasset!" Mamma: " Tom Blennerhasset! And have you been associating with him?" Papa [suddenly interested] : " Heavens, what lias the son of my honoured and honourable old friend been doing?" Chorus: '•' Doing ! Why his falher has endorsed himself banknnt for friends—that's what's the matter! " Angiest '• Oil. mon Dieu, fai faim! Avcz vous qucique chor: do bon. en votre poehe, mon clier freee! Excuse me for speaking French, for. to toll the truth, I haven'c spoken English for so long that it comes dreadfully awkward. "Wish we were back at Yurrup—e'est votre desire aussi, n'est ce pas, ines chores?" And from that moment thev lapsed into barbarous French and kept it up for an hour,—By Mark Twain.