PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

A Crowded, gas-lit, stuffy hall,

A prosy speaker, such a duffer,

A mob that loves to stamp and bawl,

Noise, suffocation—how I suffer!

What is he saying? "Mr. G.

Attacks the British Constitution,

It therefore—er—er—falls to me

To move the first—er—resolution:

"That—er—the Shrimpington-on-Sea

United Primrose Habitations

Pronounce ('Hear, hear!') these Bills to be

Iniquitous (cheers) innovations."

I'll bear this heat and noise no more;

My constitution would be weaker.

I hurry out, and find, next door,

Another meeting and its speaker;

Another crowded, stuffy hall,

A frantic shouter, greater duffer,

A mob more prone to stamp and bawl,

Noise, suffocation still I suffer.

What is he saying? "Mr. G.,

Despite drink's cursed coalition,

Dooms publicans (groans), as should be,

On earth, as elsewhere, to perdition!

"I move, the Shrimpington-on-Sea

United Bands of Hope, with pleasure,

Pronounce the Veto Bill to be

A great (cheers), good (shouts), just (roars) measure."

Enough! O frantic fools who rave

And call it "Temperance"! This body

Would drive me to an early grave;

I'll hurry home and get some toddy.

You may, an it please you, be dull,

(For Britons deem dulness "respectable");

Stale flowers of speech you may cull,

With meanings now scarcely detectable;

You may wallow in saturnine spite,

You may flounder in flatulent flummery;

Be sombre as poet Young's "Night,"

And dry as a Newspaper "Summary";

As rude as a yowling Yahoo,

As chill as a volume of Chitty;

But oh, Sir, whatever you do,

You must not be witty!

Plod on through the sand-wastes of Fact,

Long level of gritty aridity;

With pompous conceit make a pact,

Be bondsman to bald insipidity;

Be slab as a black Irish bog,

Slow, somnolent, stupid, and stodgy;

Plunge into sophistical fog,

And the realms of the dumpishly dodgy.

With trump elephantine and slow,

Tread on through word-swamps, dank and darkling;

But no, most decidedly no,

You must not be sparkling!

Be just as unjust as you like,

A conscienceless, 'cute special-pleader;

As spiteful as Squeers was to Smike,

(You may often trace Squeers in a "leader.")

Impute all the vileness you can,

Poison truth with snake-venom of fable,

Be fair—as is woman to man,

And kindly—as Cain was to Abel.

Suggest what is false in a sneer,

Suppress what is true by confusing;

Be sour, stale, and flat as small-beer,

But don't be amusing!

Party zealots will pardon your spite,

If against their opponents it sputters,

The way a (word) foeman to fight,

Is to misrepresent all he utters.

That does not need wisdom or wit,

(Ye poor party-scribes, what a blessing!)

No clean knightly sword, but a spit

Is the weapon for mangling and messing;

Wield that, like a cudgel-armed rough

Blent with ruthless bravo,—such are numerous!—

Lie, slander, spout pitiful stuff,

But—beware of the humorous!

For if you should fall into fun,

You might lapse into manly good-nature,

And then—well your course would be run!

No,—study up spleen's nomenclature;

Learn all the mad logic of hate,

And then, though your style be like skilly,

Your sense frothy Styx in full spate.

And your maxims portentously silly;

You will find party scope for your pen,

Coin meanness and malice to money;

But sour dulness must keep to his den,

And never be funny.

Smart Mr. Fox, whose brain no conscience troubles,

Floated a Company—for blowing bubbles!

"Bubbles?" the duller creatures cried in chorus,

"Are you not coming nursery nonsense o'er us?

What is the use of bubbles—save to boys?"

"Hush!" cried 'cute Reynard. "Do not make a noise!

Bubbles—if bright—are cunning's best decoys.

Bubbles are only wind plus soap and water;

But well-stirred suds, and well-blown flatulence,

In this fool world, have influence immense,

And draw unthinking dupes from every quarter.

Eloquence is but Wind, yet flowery trope

Is Humbug's favourite lure;

And what is Diplomatic Skill but soap?

Trust me! Success is sure!

Bubbles are bright, bewitch the mob, float far,