Bravado, bluster, brass, swagger, assurance, front, nerve, dash, confidence, gesture, audacity — term it what you will, this "something" is the trick that puts it over on the herd.
Captain Bobadil, Sir Lucius O'Trigger, Bombastes Furioso, Chrononhotonthologos, Hector, Cromwell, Napoleon, Richard Brinsley Sheridan et al had the idea. Witness D'Annunzio, in our own age, an arrogant little "dago" with a fancy alias, snapping his fingers at the world. True, a sort of a poet and by many cried a genius, whatever that means, but, by all the gods, Master Jack Pudding himself.
And how many more such, because of mental limitations alone, playing to an infinitely smaller audience, may we discern about us here and otherwhere — pretty little fellows all — strutting, mouthing, pirouetting, right proud, indeed, of their divers offices, rituals, mummeries. We discover them trading in Wall Street, parading on Fifth Avenue, sauntering in and out of the exclusive clubs of any larger city — ever the super-manikin!
At patriotic meetings, at civic and dignitarian banquets, on decorated platforms, wherever speeches are addressed to the "peepul," our Master Jack Puddings are Johnny-on-the-Spot with their frock or dinner coats, as the occasion warrants, flaunting boutonieres and immaculate waistcoats.
Nor do we detect them only in social and financial circles — politics and the professions, the Army, the Navy, and the Church are veritably alive with them, these pretty fellows. We observe them, without the aid of the Press, in the Senate Chamber, the House of Representatives, the Gubernatorial incumbencies, and, if we dare, we may glance up and glimpse them smirking down upon us from the loftier sinecureties — always they are recognizable.
Even here, in this, our ancient and highly enlightened community, where Mademoiselle Frou Frou and Mrs. Grundy rub elbows at charity bazaars, and sip tea together in the Quartrante Club, these knights of the curb and carpet are conspicuous. We note them next door, across the street, in the big house on the avenue, presiding over banks, directing businesses, captaining educational and other drives, in all the tinselly places where poise and purse are paramount.
Still, when census is taken, they are not overly numerous, these charlatan chaps — remains, by necessity, hoi polloi, the hero-worshipping herd. Instance, J. Philander Balderdash. Behold his impressive manner, remark his stance, his popularity. Everyone secretly envies him. He is undoubtedly a big man, a regular he-man, a man of position and parts. Consider, also, Judge Flubadub. What a figure he cuts of the cultured barrister, with his slight air of condescension, and his not quite too ponderous dignity. Observe, moreover, the Honorable John L. Suchamuch and Professor Ninian Folderol and Mister This and Mister That — gallant gentlemen all, rogues all, behind the mask.
But, alas, brother, in the summing up, who is exempt? Not you, not we, not Bill Jones, a nice lad at that, nor old Doctor Mortyx in the Maison Rouge Building, nor, peradventure, the Reverend Simon Pure himself.
"All is vanity," saith the Preacher. "Vanity is all," retorts Master Pudding, and when the final inventory is made, we may be not a little surprised to find even ourselves, even you, and even us, checked, classed and bundled, by the Perpetrator of this "ALL" into one great sack bearing the uncompromising tag, "Mountebankiana."