Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 7

small crabs creep, And safe
from prigs who plague and nymphs who peep, Sagacious Punch
reclines and woos benignant sleep.
II.
Why are we weighed upon with Politics, And, utterly fatigued by
"bores" and "sticks," While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are
"such clever things!" And make perpetual moan, Still from one
"Question" to another thrown? Gulls, even, fold their wings, And cease
their wanderings, Watching our brows which slumber's holy balm
Bathes gently, whilst the inner spirit sings "There is no joy but calm!"
Why should Punch only toil, the top and crown of things?
III.
How sweet it were, dodging the urban stream, With half-shut eyes ever
to seem Falling asleep in a half dream! To dream and dream that
yonder glittering light No more shall top the tall Clock Tower's height;
To hear no more the party speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To
watch the crisping ripples on the beach; (No, no, not HICKS! Thank
heaven, he's far away!) To lend one's mind and fancy wholly Unto the
influence of the calmly jolly; Forgetful, whilst the salt breeze round one
rustles; Of all the clamorous Congresses of Brussels, Of all the
spouting M.P.'s party tussles, Of all the noisy votaries of CARL MARX;
Of all save slumber and Unmitigated Larks!
IV.
Dear are the memories of our wedded lives, Dear also are the outfits of
our wives, And their huge trunks: but this is a sweet change! For surely
now our household hearths are cold, Charwomen prowl thereby: our
halls look strange, Our suites are swathed like ghosts. Here all is joy,

And, by the stirless silence rendered bold, The very gulls stand round
with furléd wings. What do you think of it, TOBY, my boy? The
Session's Bills are half-forgotten things. Is there discussion in our little
Isle? Let Parties broken so remain. Factions are hard to reconcile: Prate
not of Law and Order--by the main! There is a fussiness worse than
death Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Lost labour, and sheer waste of
breath, Sore task to hearts dead beat by many wars, And ears grown
dumb with listening to loud party jars.
V.
But propt on sand and pebbles rolly-olly How sweet (while briny
breezes fan us lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a boat-side
tarry, coally, To watch the long white breakers drawing slowly Up to
the curling turn and foamy spill-- To hear far-off the wheezy
Town-Crier calling, "Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" Truly, TOBIAS mine, This
_solitude à deux_ is most divine; A Congress we--of Two; where no
outfalling Is possible. Our Anti-Labour line Is wordlessly prolonged,
stretched out beside the brine.
VI.
Such Lotos-eating all at times must seek! The Lotos blows by many an
English creek. Punch is no "mild-eyed melancholy" coon, Born, like
the Laureate's islanders, to moon In lands in which 'tis always afternoon.
No, TOBY, no! Yet stretch your tawny muzzle Upon these tawny sands!
We will not puzzle, For a few happy hours, our weary pates With
Burning Questions or with Dull Debates. We have had enough of
Measures, and of Motions, we, "Ayes" to starboard, "Noes" to larboard
(in the language of the sea), Where the wallowing SEYMORE spouted
like a whale, and COBB made free. Let us take our solemn davy,
TOBY, for a space (Punch perceives complete approval in that doggish
face)-- Let us take our davy, TOBY--_for a time_, now mind!-- In this
briny Lotos Land to live and lie reclined, On the sands like chums
together, careless of mankind!
[_Sleeps._

* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.]
* * * * *
SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER II
.
_ON TOUR--RESTAURATION--METHOD--RAPID
ACT--PATRIOTISM--CHORUS--DINNER--FORWARDS--ENTRÉE
--EXIT--DESTINATION._
With DAUBINET I soon acquire the careless habit of speaking any
French that comes into my head, irrespective of grammar, genders, or
idioms. If he doesn't understand it in French he will do so in English, or
_vice versâ_. On this mutual comprehension system we get along as
easily as the express does, and as easily as the boat does too,
to-day,--for we are in luck, the weather is delicious and the sea
propitious,--and so we arrive hungry and happy at the excellent buffet
at the Calais Station, the praises of which I have sung more than once
in my lifetime.
[Illustration]
Far be it from me to draw comparisons, but I if want to start well and
wisely for the Continong, give me the short sea-passage _viâ_ Dover
and the excellent restauration at Calais, with a good twenty-five
minutes allowed for refreshment; _though why this interval shouldn't
be extended to three-quarters of an hour, and less time occupied on the
journey to Paris, I have never yet been able