Look at Miss Turligood and Mr. Stellato,
and see if the parallel is not supported."
The individuals named were seen to be twisting themselves up and making
an awkward sort of obeisance to the housemaid, who (still as Red-Jacket)
thus delivered herself:--
"Me goin' to dancey war-dance. Great Spirit sends lots more Indians come
dancey too."
A cry of acquiescence,--perchance intended for a ghostly war-whoop,--and
the beloved of my Lord Byron broke into a savage polka.
Stellato seized a paper-knife, and proceeded to scalp a chair with
merciless ferocity.
Those unfortunate ladies, Miss Branly and Miss Turligood, were unable to
resist the infection, and so sprang among the party, whirled about, and
exhibited absurdities painful and unnecessary to relate.
"By the Muse of my ancestor the Poet!" exclaimed Colonel Prowley,
indignantly, "I will no longer endure this clumsy travesty of that
choric saltation with which Apollo was said to inspire his Pythian
virgins. Dr. Burge, you will oblige me by pulling down that shawl!
Sister, you will please to open the shutters of the south window!"
The requests were instantly complied with. The wholesome sunlight burst
into the room, and checked, as if by magic, the unseemly mumming of
these deluded convulsionaries.
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