Even a king once dined off goose livers
or something of the sort, and we have heard somewhere of a
"feast of snails."
Even assuming glasses of Lager, 20 Schnaps, and 30 plates
of bread and cheese were consumed at the village with the
unpronounceable name 70 miles this side of Nuremberg, one intensely
hot afternoon in July, 1883, on the eve of the International
Tournament in that city when the train unpolitely went on, leaving
him behind, Bird was not the only consumer nor responsible for
the food famine, which the Field and the Illustrated Sporting
and Dramatic say prevailed afterwards for the whole of the
inhabitants of the place (fifty souls) including the old lady ill in
bed, and her attendant who deserted her for the afternoon partook
thereof.
Neither Steinitz nor Bird are funny men; the latter most
reserved among his superiors, yet looks good humored. At the
Anglo-American Hotel, Hamilton, in 1860, he was honored by a
recognition each morning for a week from the Prince of Wales.
At the second Universities chess match, Perrott's, Milk Street,
1874, a young gentleman introduced himself to Bird, and a
pleasant chat was commenced, interrupted only by unreasonable
intrusion.
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