POLITICAL MEETINGS.

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.