"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 BANVILLE.
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 "Thisby."
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 he 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'll, 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 delighted to watch it!