["_The jury, in giving their verdict, strongly censured the
gross ignorance of the accused, and regretted that there was
no law to prevent them from practising surgery._"]
[Illustration] _Mr. Punch sings, sotto voce:_--
_Begone, Dulcamara_,
_I prythee begone from me!_
_Begone, Dulcamara_,
_Thou and I will never agree!_
_AGREE?_ By all good powers, no! no more than oil and water!
For to the conscious humbug honest wrath should give no quarter;
And if _Punch's_ ready _baton_ lays its thwacks on any backs
With special zest, it is on those of charlatans and quacks.
Quack! Quack! Quack! Oh the pestilential pack!
If there is a loathsome chorus, it is Quack! Quack! Quack!
But the Quacks are having high old times in these peculiar days,
And gulls mistake their horrid din, 'twould seem, for pleasant lays.
We are quacked into distraction by unchastened power of Jaw,
Assisted by Advertisement and unrestrained by Law.
Dulcamara up to date is no longer poor or petty,
The pompous, brainless charlatan pictured by DONIZETTI,
He outshines, out-talks, out-thumps, out-cheats, out-swaggers, and
out-dresses,
With his nauseous, noxious nostrums, and his nasty, mucky messes.
Quack! Quack! Quack! He may quack the donkeys dead,
Their coin out of their purses and their eyes out of their head,
Their brains into sheer softening, their bodies to the grave,
But _he_ flourishes unpunished. Is there _nothing_ then to save
The noodles from his ignorance and knavery and bounce?
No law to lay him by the heels, no hangman's whip to trounce,
No pillory to gibbet the false fortune-piling pack
Who poison, maim, and madden with their Quack! Quack! Quack?
Dulcamara stands defiant, while his drum the live air fills
With praise of his appliances, his potions, and his pills.
With sham science for his shield, venal literature and art
For his touts and advertisers, he can bravely play his part.
The comic man will clown for him, if adequately paid,
And the poet and the painter puff his wares and push his trade.
He's proudly testimonialised; folly or purchased cunning
Crack up his nastiest nostrums, keep his worst deceptions running.
He will bleed you and blackmail you, if you're weak as well as
wealthy,
Impoverish _and_ drench you, aye, do aught--save leave you healthy.
For 'tis quack, quack, quack! and 'tis drum, drum, drum!
And Dulcamara--when not _worse_--is safe to prove a hum!
Quack! Quack! Quack! It is time that cry to quelch
By Law--or else to treat the quacks like sorry rogues who "welsh";
And if Dulcamara's really safe, until the Law they alter,
Why honest men must see to it, nor in their purpose falter
Till rascals of "gross ignorance," in foul gregarious pack,
Can no longer _safely_ victimise with quack, quack, quack!
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE LION AT HOME.
_The Hope and Pride of the Family (just home from the Grand Tour)._
"OH, REALLY, YOU KNOW, THE MEN ONE MEETS IN SOME OF THOSE PLACES OUT
WEST! I SAID TO MYSELF EVERY NIGHT, 'WELL, THANK HEAVEN I HAVEN'T SHOT
ANYBODY!'" _Fond and Nervous Mother._ "YOU MEAN, THANK HEAVEN NOBODY
SHOT YOU, DON'T YOU, DEAR?"]
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