In the cell of the Station, Phlaruppe hiccups out the Morn. The benches
of wood pillow his burning head. He sighs for a draught of the sparkling
Waters of Carrara, or a goblet of the bubbling Powders of Seidilitz. But
the ice of the Lake of Wenham is not more cold than the hearts of his
victors. In the cell of the Station, Phlaruppe hiccups out the Morn.
On the throne of Justice the even-handed Twyford sits. Before him
Phlaruppe, Belgravia's hope, is dragged. He quails, for the voice of the
Judge is severe as Hicks the lusty-lunged Son of the Surrey. And lo! to
the terrors of Brixton's wheel an alms-seeking child of want he
condemns. What then shall be the doom of Phlaruppe?
But Phlaruppe is the Lord of Belgravia. In his presence the heart of
Twyford, the even-handed, grows soft as the Asphalte of Claridge before
the Sun in the days of the Dogs. With the milk of human kindness the
veins of his bosom are filled. Pity touches his heart-strings; and his
tone with compassion is soft as the Piccolo of Jullien, the Emperor of
all the Polkas.
But why, Maid of the Rainbow, should Ossian, like a penny-a-liner,
recite the fine that Phlaruppe paid to his Queen; or tell how the
generous Twyford, for a crown, forgave him who tore the Lion's head from
Gliddon's halls?
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
[Illustration:
The Carrara Water is found very efficacious in cases of Heart-burn.
]
[Illustration:
Oh! that dreadful British Brandy!
]
[Illustration:
It is strongly recommended in cases of foul tongue.
]
AN ANACREONTIC:
IN PRAISE OF CARRARA WATER.
Come, let us quaff the Wine of Moet!
Come, let us sing like Moses' Poet!
To thee and to thy sparkling daughter,
Carrara's copper-cooling Water!
Maugham! come let us sing of thee,
St. Swithin of Sobriety!
Sweet, after drinking too much wine,
Kind Cockle! are those pills of thine:
Or when the bowl has drown'd the wits,
Sweet are thy Powders—Seidilitz!
Or seedy with the dew of Mountains,
The water's sweet from Soda's fountains.
Yes! sweet are these—but sweeter far are
Thy sparkling Waters—O Carrara!
And Maugham! thy fame doth far outstep
The fame of Cockle—fame of Schweppe.
So when I burn with too much 'toddy,'
Carrara! thou shalt cool my body;
Yes! then I'll seek that Water's aid,
That's from Carrara marble made:
And as I drain it from the chalice,
I'll dream I drink some melted palace;
Or quaff some Venus in solution,
Of fam'd Canova's execution;
Or fancy, as the draught decreases,
I'm swallowing bottled chimney-pieces.
Carrara! thy delicious fluid
To me's the loveliest liquor brewéd;
My throbbing brain grows calm and placid.
Whene'er I quaff thee—sweet Antacid!
Thine is the gift of being able
To cure "the excesses of the table,"
And all the ills that thence attack us,
Thou brightest, healthiest child of Bacchus
For when I've drunk too much Glenlivat,
And my head is splitting with it,
Carrara! thou can'st ease my pain,
And fit my soul to drink again.
[Illustration:
"MY WIFE IS A WOMAN OF MIND."
]