The Great and the Grater.

History bulges with instances of those who started out to be great and grew to be graters—laid low by a liver. Consider, dear reader. Napoleon, Alexander (the other one), Julius the seizer, Egbert the egg-beater, Don Quick-lunch, and Dick Tiepin; were they not all “licked” by a liver? Is it not true that when the liver lies down on the job the spleen rises up in revolt? Alexander's corn-quests were the result of hobnails on the liver rather than of hobnails on his soldiers’ sandals. No doubt he arose one morning from his canopied couch and, after kicking the royal platypus through the portcullis, howled: “Where the Helvetia is my Roamin’ razor? I'll knock the eternal page 14 anchovies out of Africa for this;” and he did. In confirmation of this hypercritical hypothesis, let us brood o'er the liverish lines of Leopold Liverpill, the bilious bard.