MEETING OF THE DWARFS.
A meeting of the real bipeds, or little human beings who run about upon two feet, was held at the Lilliputian Warehouse, in New Street, Covent Garden, to move an address of thanks to Her Majesty, for her liberal patronage of the least of the Rational Animals.
General Tom Thumb, L.S.D., was unanimously voted to the Child's Chair, and the business of the Meeting having been opened by the Small Germans.
The Substance and the Shadow.
The General rose—a few inches—to address his brother Homuncules. He said they had met to offer up an act of gratitude from the Shortest men to the Highest Personage in the Realm—to her who had refused to patronize everything great, and had stooped to take them by the hand—to her who had originally given them that lift, which had caused them—short as they were—to be looked up to by—Lovely Woman. And he would be happy to favour the company with "God Save the Queen," gratis.
The English Tom Thumb here rose to rebut the General's assertions, and was proceeding to complain of the want of patronage offered to native insignificance, when he was carried out.
The Highland Dwarfs, in a Scotch accent as broad as their size would admit, said, "a' the Gen'ral had drapt was unco' true." When they left the Land o' Cakes they could hardly raise a Bawbee among them, and now they could put down 1000l. any day.
The Boshie Men, or Pigmy Race, through their interpreter, stated, they were happy to find that, though the Dwarfs had come over to England little by little, they now formed so large a body.
Don Francisco Hidalgo said, "Dat as el smallest man in el vorld, he objec to el proceed; for he never meet vith el couragement el dam Dom Dum speak of."
The little Men here got to very high words, and the meeting broke up in confusion.
NAPOLEON'S ADIEU D'EGYPTIAN HALL.
PHLARUPPE!
AN OSSIANIC POEM.
DUAN THE FIRST.
Argument.
This poem is addressed to the Maid of "the Rainbow" (in Fleet Street), where Ossian is enjoying his Whisky and Cigar. The Phlaruppe here spoken of is the same as the Aquævadius mentioned so frequently in Police History, and who in the year '40 headed an expedition against the Knockers of Cockaigne, and was repulsed by "the force" under the command of Rowan, the chief of Scotland (Yard), though not until Phlaruppe had routed several of his "Divisions." Tradition assigns the date of this event to the year '42, but on searching the pages of the historian Hodder, we find no mention made of the circumstance in his valuable work entitled, "Sketches of Life and Character taken at Bow Street."
Bring, daughter of the Rainbow! bring me the pen of steel! The mountain-dew sparkles in Ossian's brain, and it is brilliant with song. As is the black reviver to the garment whose seams are white with age, so is the cream of the valley to the seedy soul of the bard. It brings back the freshness of youth.
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
The draught of the waters of Kinahan wakens the memory of the past. The odour of thy weeds, mild Lopez! is pleasant in Ossian's nose. Like the brow of Ben-Primrose, his head is veiled in clouds. Listen, thou daughter of the Rainbow! to the deeds of the superior classes.
A tale of high life!
Fair is thy Garden, O Covent! Green are its paths with the leaves of the cabbage. There the cauliflower of Fulham rests its white head, and the pine of Jamaica perfumes the breeze. The daughters of Erin are there laden with Pippins of gold. Near are the halls of Evans. Music is heard in them by night. The morning dawns in song. The voice of Llewellyn of Wales gladdens the feast! and Sloman, the son of Israel, pours forth his numbers, apt as the bard of Moses. Glad are the halls of Evans! It is the abode of Joy!
Wilt thou not listen, bright maid of the Rainbow! to the voice of Ossian? My soul is bursting with song. The collars of my Corazza droop like the ears of the Greyhound, and my eye in a fine frenzy rolls. Thus the mighty Bunn appears when he dreams that he dwells in marble halls. Dost thou not behold, bright maid! the head of a lion in Ossian's hand? A ring of iron depends from its mouth, and its face wears a look of rage. That head the noble Phlaruppe, Lord of Belgravia, tore away. Phlaruppe tore it away by the strength of his arm. Listen, then, daughter of the Rainbow! to the tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
What sound is that kisses the ear? Across thy Garden, sweet Covent! it comes dancing along the breeze. Can it be the song of the lark climbing the sky? But the lark wakes not the night with his notes; and bright burns the gas in the lamp of the Tavistock. 'Tis the voice of Von Joel, the toothless, gladdening the halls of Evans. Of Evans, the son of Thespis.
The Thespian son sits in his hall of state. The feast is spread around. The strong waters of Hodges and Betts sparkle on the board. A thousand Havannahs perfume the air. A thousand glittering tankards foam with the nectar of Barclay. There is the ripe fruit of Erin, and the rabbit of Wales is there.
Who comes from the Saloons of the West, with his warriors around him? He smokes the Dodeen of peace. His face glows with the juice of the Gooseberry. His cheeks are as red as the garments of the bearers of letters on the festival of May? Who is it but the noble Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia? In his train is Sutton the Sambo; and Burke, the hard of hearing, attends him. Mighty in battle are they.
The Lord of Belgravia graces the board: the Bards hail his presence with a song. He quaffs the brown stout of Dublin. The night reels away in revelry. The morning peeps in at the casement; and Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia, is glorious with Guinness's.
A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!
DUAN THE SECOND.
Grey grows the air with the Day's young light. With the carmine of Morning the cheek of Heaven is rouged. The Camphine lamp of the Moon has gone out; and turned off is the Gas of the Stars. Yawning the tired Policeman crawls on his rounds.
Hushed are the halls of Evans.
Where art thou, Belgravia's Lord? Thou pride of the West, where art thou? Lo! he comes; but his steps are unsteady with Beer. On the sinewy arms of the dark-skinned Sutton, and Burke, surnamed the Deaf, he leans. From them he bursts of a sudden, like the cork from the Waters of Soda. The head of a lion on the gates of Gliddon, the chief of the Divan, frowns on the valiant Phlaruppe. Dauntless as the brute-taming Van Amburgh, he grapples with the iron beast. He sounds the "fake away" of Belgravia. One potent wrench of his arm and the head of the forest king hangs drooping from Phlaruppe's hand. Knockerless are the gates of Gliddon! Of its lion the divan is bereft!
The lynx-eyed C 16 beheld the wrong. His dander arose. He drew his staff in vengeance. He seized the noble Phlaruppe. Sutton, the heavy-handed son of Africa, raised his arm. His white teeth grinned defiance on the blue son of Peel. Into the murky waters of the kennel he hurled the pride of the yard of Scotland. His blood crimsoned the flags. Groaning for help, he sprang the rattle of war.
Like rockets at Vauxhall the azure force of Rowan rushed up. Their hands grasped the staff of power. Phlaruppe heard the tramp of their Wellingtons. He sounded the Lullalietee of battle. He gathered his warriors around him. Firm as the cement of Pouloo they stood. As a torrent from a shower-bath poured the stiff-necked sons of Peel upon the foe.
As the cats of Kilkenny they fight. Like the shop of the maker of trunks rings the street with the blows. Stained is the earth with the claret of life.
Battle of the Garden of Covent, why should Ossian, like Robins, the chief of Garraway's, pen the catalogue of thy wounds? Thou art with the son of Kean, a calamity of the past.
The force of the Yard of Scotland overcame!
On the stretcher of Ignominy, Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia, was laid!
DUAN THE THIRD.
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!
The Carrara Water is found very efficacious in cases of Heart-burn.
Oh! that dreadful British Brandy!
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.
"MY WIFE IS A WOMAN OF MIND."