Punch: Punch (101.1891)

September 26, 1891.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

153

"REVOLTED MORTIMER."

[Dr. Mortimer Granville, in a letter to the
Times, attacks the logic and disputes the dogmas
of the fanatical Teetotaller, and carries the war
into the enemy's country by boldly asserting that
"incalculable harm has been done to the average
human organism, with its functions, which we are
wont to classify as mental and physical, by the
spread of teetotal views and practices."]

Oho ! Doctor Mortimer Granville,
You are scarcely as bland as De Banvtxle.
On the Knights of the Pump
Your assertions come thump
Like an old Cyclops' " sledge " on his anvil.

Fanatical logic is " quisby" ;

Each crank in his bonnet has his bee.

They swagger, dod rot 'em !—

Like loud Bully Bottom
When playing the Thraso to " Thtiby."

Total abstinence purely pernicious ?

Oh, Doctor, that's really delicious !
That's turning the tables
On faddists, whose fables

Do make the judicious suspicious.

Your modest and moderate drinker,
Who's also a fair-minded thinker,
Would look in the face
The fell scourge of our race.
Sense from logic should not be a shrinker.

But drinking and drunkenness, truly,
Should not be confounded unduly.

Fanatics here blunder;

As far they 're asunder
As Tempe and Ultima Thule !

We thank you, whose lucid urbanity
Assures us our favourite "vanity"

(To quote cheery Sam)

Need not be a " dram "
To drive us to death or insanity.

Good wine and sound ale have their uses,
To distinguish 'twixt which and abuses

The clear-headed want;

But illogical cant
Will ne'er solve our worst social cruces.

"Table waters and watery " wines, Sir,
Don't cheer up a man when Ls dines, Sir.

To gases and slops,

And weak "fizzles," and " pops,"
The weak stomach only inclines, Sir.

Like teetotal cant, they're " depressing,"
And if you can give them a dressing.

With logic compact,

Firmly founded on fact,
Sober sense will bestow its best blessing.

But drunkenness, Doctor is awful,
'Tis that we could wish made unlawful.
'Tis that which will prick
A man's conscience when sick
Of fanatics of flatulent jaw full.

Your sots are sheer abominations,
But they who deserve castigations

Much more than poor " drunks,"
Are those pestilent skunks
Who poison the people's potations !

Good wine and sound ale need apology ?
No ! But there's something to follow, G. !

Distilling and Brewing

Must work our undoing
When branches of mere Toxicology !

Good malt, hop, and grape, though fermented,
May leave a man well and contented,
But poisons infernal
(See any Trade Journal!)
Drive decent souls drunk and demented.

Verb sap. ! You '11, excuse the suggestion.
They soften brains, ruin digestion ;

Sap body and soul,

In the (drugged) Flowing Bowl.
There, Doctor, 's the real Drink Question!

Meanwhile, Punch admires your plain
speaking.

Enough of evasion and sneaking!
Let fact, logic stout,
And sound pluck fight it out.

Truth's "at home" to right valorous seeking.

Of course, my dear Doctor, you'll catch it.

The Pump is aggressive ; you match it.
Whoever proves right,
Your pluck starts a good fight,

And Punch is deliehted to watch it!

THE CONQUERED " WORTH."

(Some way after Foe's "Conqueror Worm")

[" "When women no longer interest themselves in
silks and satins, ribbons and furbelows, it will be
an infallible sign that the great drama of humanity
is at length played out, and that the lights are to
be turned down, and the house left to silence and
the dark."—Daily Chronicle.']

I.

Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the " Rational" latter years!
A female throng, dowdv, bedight

In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sits in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,
Whilst the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.

n.

Mimes, dressed in fashion now gone by,

Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly :

Mere puppets they who come and go

At the bidding of a huge
formless Thing
That shifts the scenery to
and fro,
Ruling the World froni flat
and wing—
Paris and Pimlico!

m.

That motley drama—oh, be
sure

It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased
for evermore
By a crowd that seize it
not,

r-p/ Through a circle that ever
returneth in
To the self-same spot;
With much of Folly, and waste of Tin,
And Vanity soul of the plot.

TV.

But see,"amid the mimic rout

A mystic shape intrude !
A formless thing that writhes from out

The scenic solitude!
It writhes! it squirms!—with mortal pangs,

Mocked at by laughter rude ;
There's no more snap in its sharp fangs,

Which once that crowd subdued.

v.

Out—out are the lights—out all!

And over each pallid form,
The curtain, Mode's funeral pall,

Comes down amidst hisses in storm ;
And the audience, dowdy, but human,

Uprising proclaim, with wild mirth,
That the play is the Comedy " Woman,"

And the hero the conquered " Worth."

Extremes Meet.

It is a noticeable thing

That when Kent bines produce their crop.
Swelldom is always "on the wing,"

And Slumdom on the Hop" !

THE LATEST WEATHER-WISE
DOGGEREL.

By a Scientific Rain-maker.

[It is stated that rain may be brought down by
the explosion of dynamite and blasting-powder
attached to oxyhydrogen balloons and kite-tails.]

EvjtNLNG red and morning grey

Will send the traveller on his way;

But—blasting-powder on kites' tails spread,

Will bring down rain upon his head.

Retort by a Washed-out Wayfarer.

If dynamite would bring fine weather,
Scientists might be in fine feather,
As 'tis, I sing, to the schoolboy tune,
" Yah-bah ! (oxyhydrogen) balloon! "

FATHER AND SON.

(A Fossible Dialogue after a Recent Decision at
Marylebone.)

Father. And now, my dear Son, I must
ask you for your rent.

Son. But surely, Father, I am entitled to
a room in your house ?

Father. Out of my love and affection ; but
this is a matter of busi-
ness ; and, if you de-
sire to be a Voter, you
must behave as such.

So)i. But I have
had some difficulty in
scraping up enough
to pay you.

Father. Surely,
eighteen shillings a-
week is a reasonable
sum for an apart-
ment, however small,
in Mayfair ?

Son. I do not deny it; still it seems hard
that I should be mulcted to that extent some
fifty times a-year.

Father. I cannot see the hardship, nor the
money!

Son. If you really want it, it is here.
{Produces a pocket-book, from which he
takes sufficient change to satisfy the
claim.

Father (pocketing coin). Thank you ; and
now we may say, adieu!

Son. But how about dinner—am I not to
dine with you ?

Father. Dine with me! What an idea!
Why should you ?

Son. Because I am your Son.

Father. You mean someone infinitely more
important—my Lodger.

Son. And you absolutely refuse me food ?

Father. Not I, my boy ; not I! It is the
law! If I was to give you what you ask, you
and I would be had up for bribery.

So?i. Then you prefer patriotism to paternal
affection ?

Father. Well, to be candid with you, I
do ! It is distinctly cheaper !

Miiscovite Version of a Music-hall
Chorus.

Hirsch ! Hirsch ! Hirsch !
Here comes the Bogie Man !
He wants to help the Hebrews; he '11 catch
them if he can.
Hirsch ! Hirsch ! Hirsch !
He's hit upon a plan,
And all the persecutors cry, "Here comes the
Boarie Man! "

lines on a thotograph.
Downey has photographed "the Fifes" at
home.

Aha ! Domestic music ! FrEE and " drum" !