This Description, I Feel, Is Growing Too Frightful; Ladies Who Read
It Will Be Going Into Hysterics, Or Saying, "Well, Upon My Word,
This Is The Most Singular, The Most Extraordinary Kind Of Language.
Jane, My Love, You Will Not Read That Odious Book - " And So I Will
Be Brief.
This grinning man belabours the patient violently with
the horse-brush.
When he has completed the horsehair part, and you
lie expiring under a squirting fountain of warm water, and fancying
all is done, he reappears with a large brass basin, containing a
quantity of lather, in the midst of which is something like old
Miss MacWhirter's flaxen wig that she is so proud of, and that we
have all laughed at. Just as you are going to remonstrate, the
thing like the wig is dashed into your face and eyes, covered over
with soap, and for five minutes you are drowned in lather: you
can't see, the suds are frothing over your eye-balls; you can't
hear, the soap is whizzing into your ears; can't gasp for breath,
Miss MacWhirter's wig is down your throat with half a pailful of
suds in an instant - you are all soap. Wicked children in former
days have jeered you, exclaiming, "How are you off for soap?" You
little knew what saponacity was till you entered a Turkish bath.
When the whole operation is concluded, you are led - with what
heartfelt joy I need not say - softly back to the cooling-room,
having been robed in shawls and turbans as before.
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