Punch (66.1874)

42

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [January 31, 1874.

MILITARY MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

SAM Source. . d c l

practical and sol-
dierly Circular
addressed by Sir
Garnet Wolse-
ley to bis troops
contains a state-
ment which, while
he and they are en-
gaged with H.M.
King Coefee Cal-
calli and his sa-
vages, may give
rise to controversy
amongst gentle-
men of England,
particularly some
of the philosophi-
cal ana reverend,
who live at home
at ease:—

“Providence has
implanted in the
heart of every na-
tive of Africa super-
stitious awe and
dread of the white
man.”

There is no ques-
tion of the fact
that superstitious
awe and. dread of
the white man are
feelings which ex-
ist in the native
African’s heart or
mind. That is
positive. Butwhe-
ther they have
been implanted
there with fore-

sight and design, as means to an end, is a consideration which must give us a little pause.
Thus, your Reverences and your Worships, you see before you on one hand what we may

call a Scylla of Positivism, and, on the
other, a Charybdis of the metaphysico-
theological kind, between which it will
take a better pilot than any one at present
generally known to steer you. However,
the proposition above-quoted, much as it
may perplex you, has of course suggested
not the slightest difficulty, hut, on the
contrary, proved highly reassuring and
clearly intelligible, to tne gallant fellows
to whom, for their comfort and informa-
tion, it was addressed by their judicious
and valiant leader.

CANZONET FOR CANVASSERS.

Apropos of the Coming Elections.

Would you bribe the tender voter ?

Of corruption be promoter F
That would be a dangerous part.
Woo his ear with words of honey ;
Breathe no whispered hint of money :
In soft speeches lies your art.

Interest in his welfare feigning,

Yet with care your tongue restraining,
Quickly you his views may learn.
Swift to aid your cause enlist him,
Round your little finger twist him ;
Lamblike to your nock he ’ll turn.

If his wife you chance on meeting,
Bow, and give her kindly greeting,
Sweetly on her children smile:

Buy some lollipops for Harry,

Give a blue-eyed doll to Carry ;

So the mother’s heart beguile.

Thus a careful course pursuing,
Nought suspicious ever doing
Courts inquiring you defy ;

Crossest cross-examination
Causes you no perturbation:

Tinge of green’s not in your eye !

POEM ON THE DUKE’S DAY.

[Mr. Punch feared that the Poets were not coming out “ in the
way that might have been expected,” as folks say in Japan. How-
ever, he has been favoured with an early copy of the following com-
position, which the Bard (surely he need not be named) had a double
motive for writing—affection for the Royal Family, and gratitude
for a recent pension. He considers this a gem of the first water.]

This is a day we never saw before,

For both our Princes stand on Russia’s shore,

One with a wife of whom ’t must be allowed
His Royal Highness is most justly proud ;

The other bending to a gracious bride,

To whom for life he will be shortly tied;

Then soar, my muse, on pinions glad and free,

And to the great occasion equal be.

An interesting sight they did behold,

Water was taken in a bowl of gold,

A cross was then inserted in the wave,

And a chief-priest did benediction crave.

The rite was fanciful, but harmless, sure,

And gave much satisfaction to the poor.

Our Princes were not ’mid the concourse, but
Stood at a window, which, I hope, was shut,

For, till acclimatised, ’tis hard to bear
The shocking keenness of the Russian air,

And stern bronchitis, quite impartial, brings
Grief to the throats of Princes and of Kings.

One novel thought my Muse’s wit inflames—

Who ever heard a blessing on the Thames ?
Especially when manufacturing smells
Prompt, not a blessing, friends, but something else—
Not that I tolerate a childish curse,

But claim some licence for a sportive verse.

Things have not always been as we could wish,
Russia and England have fried other fish.

In the Crimea both their swords have crossed,
Where honour, if not won, was never lost.

Nor are we sure that Russia doth not mean
Some day to march upon the Indian scene;

But be these memories gently laid away
Upon this happy and well-omen’d day,
Remembering, and I say it without scoff,
Sufficient for the day’s the ill thereof.

I don’t mean that, of course—repress the sneer
No ill can come when saffron Hymen’s near,
Combined with Cupid—yet again I pause.

We live beneath the sway of Christian laws,

And if those heathen beings I invoke,

It is that I may point the harmless joke.

I know full well that such old classic ties
The Church of England does not recognise.

Great crowds of persons of most various ranks
Have lately gathered upon Neva’s banks,

To-day, my Muse, in matrimonial bands
Alfred and Marti: swathe their royal hands.

He’s bound in Russia, so, for that, is she—

A bondage of the happiest liberty :

Were it but etiquette, the hour would win
His sweetest tune on his best violin ;

But, as good Dr. Primrose used to say,

Some graver thoughts befit the marriage day,

Dean Stanley’s sermon seems to me a boon
Much more becoming than a lively tune.

Now, we ’ll suppose the ceremonial said,

The crowns suspended o’er each youthful head,

The Czar protrudes his hand, and gives the kiss,
Wishing his children every sort of bliss,

All the Princesses lavish kindly smiles,

The bright tear sparkling in each eye the whiles;
Frank Albert Edward, laughing, whispers, “ Alf,
You, like myself, have got a Better Half.”

Then all the cannons give an awful roar,

Flash flies a telegram to England’s shore,