The poetry-and-beer-loving public was fascinated by a series
of memorable stanzas:--
[Illustration]
"The hardy Briton loves good cheer,
His mighty sinews never fail:
'Pour me,' he cries 'a draught of Beer,
And let it be Pellucid Ale.'"
So the verse began, and it was illustrated by a flaring symbolical
picture in two compartments. In the first a throng of gaunt and
miserable creatures was represented crawling with difficulty towards
an immense barrel, astride which sat a lusty, hop-crowned deity.
In the second, every member of the same throng had become stout and
hearty. The hollow cheeks were round and shining with health, the
bent backs were straight, the dreary faces were wreathed in smiles,
and every hand held a foam-topped glass of "Pellucid Ale." Underneath
were painted the words, "After one glass." Even without the title,
the inference was obvious; the confiding public drew it, and immense
quantities of BULMER's ale, almost simultaneously, and the result
was that, in a very short time, BULMER might have rolled in money if
he had felt disposed--as, to do him justice, he never did--to render
himself ridiculous. Now what is there in the fact that BULMER has
made a fortune in beer that should inflate him to so insufferable
an extent? Can it be that there is some mysterious property in the
liquid itself, some property which, having escaped even the careful
investigation of the analytical chemists, has pervaded the being
of BULMER, and has induced him to patronise the inhabited world? I
thought so once.
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