Punch: Punch (78.1880)

60 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [February 14, 1880.

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NINCOMPOOP IAN A.—-THE MUTUAL ADMIRATION SOCIETY.

Our Gallant Colonel (who is not a Member thereof, to Mrs. Cimabue Brown, who is). “And who ’s this young Hero they ’re all
SWARMING OVER NOW ? ”

Mrs. Cimabue Brown. “Jbllaby Postlethwaite, the great Poet, you know, who sat for Maudle’s ‘Dead Narcissus ’!
He has just dedicated his Latter-Day Sapphics to me. Is not he Beautiful?”

Our Gallant Colonel. “Why, what’s there Beautiful about him ? ”

Mrs. Cimabue Brown. “Oh, look at his Grand Head and Poetic Pace, with those Flowerlike Eyes, and that Exquisite
Sad Smile ! Look at his Slender Willowy Frame, as yielding and fragile as a Woman’s! That’s young Maudle, stand-
ing just behind him—the great Painter, you know. He has just painted Me as ‘Heloise,’ and my Husband as ‘Abelard.’
As NOT HE Divine?” ,r _ „ J7 . . T7 J , [.The Colonel hooks it.

Jy.B.—Postlethwaite and Maudle are quite unknown to fame.

AN APPEAL TO JOHN BULL'S IMAGINATION.

“ Mr. Gladstone has never addressed himself to the imagination of the
British people, only to their interests.”—Debats.

J ohm Bull, you are but a Boeotian chap,

Beery and "bovine, bashful, blunt, bucolic;

Shackled by moral figments, and the map,

You scarce appreciate Fancy free and frolic.

Her rapt outpourings, which you call clap-trap,

Though couched in language high and hyperbolic,

You ’re apt to flout with foolish indignation ;

In short, dear John, you lack imagination.

But now ’tis time the little that you have

Should be stirred up—I’d rather not say tickled.

Too long you’ve funked the Conqueror’s bloody glaive,

And for pretence of right and justice stickled :

Prosy punctilio by which the Slav

Will ne’er be, as he should be, soundly pickled.

Kick out your fogeyish monitor, Morality,

And try a little loose-laced Ideality!

Imagine, John, your simple, solid self
A sort of Anglo-Saxon Alexander,

Lord o’ the world, supreme in power and pelf,

Of all good mundane markets sole commander !

“ Imagination is a tricksy elf,

And yon mistrust her ” ?—Don’t he such a gander !

If you don't shout your claims in language strident,

You might as well go pawn Britannia’s trident.

There ’s hardly any station one can name,

In any latitude with shore or sea to it,

But is important to your world-wide game,

Forming, if not your gate, at least a key to it.

Each key ’s essential to your power and fame—

A plain truth, though the world may not agree to it—
Until of keys you ’re getting such a stock,

The world must dread a general dead-lock.

Take any given spot. Yon ’re planted there,

Or may, or can, or will be, some fine day;

In all roads leading thither you must share:

You might, could, should, would wish to pass that way.
For all contingencies you must prepare;

And so, should other peoples dare to stray
Across, or near, or round aoout such places,

Of course you must smash those intrusive races.

A glorious prospect, John ! Does it not fire
Your patriotic and imperial feelings ?

What! “ Seems to involve some things of which you tire,

Insolent snatchings and insidious stealings ’’ ?
Pooh-pooh ! You’re civilised, and don’t require
High moral sanction for despotic dealings;

And if on other races yon make ravages,

It matters little—they are mostly savages.

Don’t grovel, John, in sentimental slime,

Spread o’er low fiats by those who fain would humble
Your proper pride. You are.supreme, sublime,

And not a poor parochial village Bumble.