The Modern Traveller

Name: The Modern Traveller
Author: Belloc, Hilaire

Belloc, Hilaire

English poetry -- 19th century; Great Britain -- Colonies -- Africa -- Poetry; Humorous poetry, English

To this commission had been sent
    Great bigwigs from the Continent,
              And on the English side
    Men of such ancient pedigree
    As filled the soul of Blood with glee;
              He started up and cried:--
    “I’ll go to them at once, and make
    These young adventurous spirits take
              A proof of my desire
    To use in this concern of ours
    Their unsuspected business powers.
    The bearers of historic names
              Shall rise to something higher
    Than haggling over frontier claims,
              And they shall find their last estate
              Enshrined in my directorate.”

    [Illustration ** Blood and a military officer sitting outdoors with
              a palm tree in the background, and a snake wrapped around
              the tree.]

    In twenty minutes he returned,
    His face with righteous anger burned,
    And when we asked him what he’d done,
              He answered, “They reject us,
    I couldn’t get a single one,
              To come on the prospectus.
    Their leader (though he was a Lord)
    Stoutly refused to join the board,
    And made a silly foreign speech
    Which sounded like No Bless Ableech.
    I’m used to many kinds of men,
    And bore it very well; but, when
              It came to being twitted
    On my historic Sporting Shirt,
    I own I felt a trifle hurt;
              I took my leave and quitted.”

    There is another side to this;
    With no desire to prejudice
              The version of our leader,
    I think I ought to drop a hint
    Of what I shall be bound to print,
              In justice to the reader.
    I followed, keeping out of sight;
    And took in this ingenious way
    A sketch that throws a certain light
    On _why_ the master went away.
    No doubt he felt a trifle hurt,
    It even may be true to say
    They twitted him upon his shirt.
    But isn’t it a trifle thick
    To talk of twitting with a stick?

    [Illustration ** Military officer twitting Blood with a stick and
              kicking him.]

    Well, let it pass. He acted well.
    This species of official swell,
              Especially the peer,
    Who stoops to a delimitation
    With any European nation
              Is doomed to disappear.
    Blood said, “They pass into the night.”
    And men like Blood are always right.

    THE SECOND shows the full effect
    Of ministerial neglect;
    Sin, walking out alone in quest
    Of Boa-constrictors that infest
              The Lagos Hinterland,
    Got separated from the rest,
              And ran against a band
    Of native soldiers led by three--

    [Illustration ** Portrait of three men in (very different)
              military uniforms.]

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Modern Traveller

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