text:  Warming with our theme and impatient to manifest our royal descent in a paroxysm of enthusiasm we clutch our Cremona clasp him lovingly to our shoulder and high waving in air our magical bow which is to us a sceptre bring it down with a crash exulting in the immortal harmony about to gush like a mountain torrent from the teeming strings; when lo! to our unmitigated disgust it glides noiselessly along its hitherto resounding path for--ye gods and little fishes!--some murderous wretch at the instigation of we know not what evil sprite has _greased_ the horsehair for which we solemnly devote him to the "bowstring " the first time he is caught napping