Alpine blast,—­some mamma’s darling, injudiciously and cruelly abandoned to the risk of cold, in a land where Savory and Moore were yet unheard of, “Beppo in London” wholly unknown, Hoby unesteemed, Gunter misprized, and where George Brummell had never, never trod.  After having bestowed a wild inexpressive stare at the cannibals assembled, male and female,—­depositing his Vyse, running his digits through his perfumed hair, raising his shirt-collar so as to form an angle of forty-five with his purple Gros de Naples cravat, and applying his gold-turned snuff-box to his nose, Money (who has lived long in England, and speaks its language well) ventured to address him, by demanding if he should place a cover for him.  “Sar!—­your—­appellation—­if—­you please?” the drawling and affected response of the fop.  “Money, Sir.” “the sign of the place—­the thing—­the auberge?” “The Three Crowns, Sir.”  “Money of the country, I presume!—­Good—­stop—­put that down—­Mem:”  and he took his tablets from his pocket.  “Money—­Three Crowns—­Capital that—­will do for Dibdin,—­if not, give it Theodore Hook.  And the name of your—­your town, my man?” “Vevay, Sir!” “And that liquid concern I see from the wind_ar_?” “The Lake, Sir—­the Lake of Geneva.”  “Good gracious! all Geneva?” “Otherwise termed the Leman, Sir.”  “Lemon! ha! a sort of gin-punch, I presume—­acidulated blue-ruin—­Vastly vulgar, by Petersham—­only fit for the Cider-cellar, Three Crowns—­And that—­that—­white thing there on the other side of the punch-bowl, Money?” “That is Gin-goulph, Sir.”  “Gin-gulp! appropriate certainly, but de-ci-ded-ly—­low.”  “Will you please, Sir, to dine? dinner is on the table.”  “Din_nar_!  Crockford, be good to us!—­Why—­why—­it is scarcely more than noon, Crowns.—­What would Lady Diana say?—­But true!  I rose at eight—­so, I think, I will patronize you, my good fell_ar_—­Long journey that from Lowsan—­queer name for a place so high;—­Vastly bad country this of yours, Crowns.—­What are all those stunted poles, like cerceau sticks, placed in the ground?  What do you cultivate, Crowns?” “The vine, Sir.”  “Wine! wine! dear me! never knew wine grew before.  In England it is a manufactory.  One moment—­pardon—­Mem:—­Wine grows in—­in—­” “The Canton de Vaud, Sir.”  “In the Canton de Vo,—­Tell that to Carbonel and Charles Wright when I go back.  Is it Port, pray?” “No, Sir, a thin white wine.”  “Thin—­white —­wine—­runs up sticks in said Vo.”  “Will you permit me to help you, Sir?” demanded Money, rather impatiently.  “What have you, may I ask?” “Bouilli, Sir.”  “Bull, what? have you no other beef?—­Mem:  people living near punch-bowl eat bull beef,” “There is a very nice culotte, Sir, if you prefer it.” “Cu—­what, Three Crowns? Culotte!—­why, in France, that is—­is—­inexpressibles—­Mem:  eat inexpressibles roasted—­Breaches of taste, by Reay—­the savages!—­that will do for the Bedford—­mention it to Joy—­the brutes!—­Neither bull nor breeches, thank