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!
