To grace some Nabob's cup;
Thy figure will not do for mine,
So I must give thee up.
With chamomile the goblet fill,
The cold infusion pour,
I'll quaff the dose, the draught I'll swill,
And sigh for thee no more!
LITERATURE AT LOW WATER MARK.
A book with the odd title of "A History of the Fountains of Europe" has recently appeared. The subject cannot possibly be a dry one, but (without wishing to throw cold water on the author) we are bound to say that we have no particular thirst for the knowledge he undertakes to impart. We fear that amid the fountains of Europe our own Metropolitan fountains must cut as sorry a figure in history as they do in Trafalgar Square. We feel some curiosity to know what an author can possibly say about the Charing Cross fountain, and whether he is satisfied with merely a glance at it—which is the case with every one who sees it—or whether he traces its biography from the cistern to the slop-basin, the cradle to the grave. The historian of the Fountains of Europe prefaces his work with an essay on raising the water, but we are inclined to think he would have a far more numerous body of readers if he could offer a few hints on the possibility of raising the wind.