Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, November 3, 1894
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 107.

NOVEMBER 3, 1894.



PUNCH TO THE NEW ATTORNEY-GENERAL.

  Law is not Pan; but "BOB"'s a man,
    To make us sure indeed.
  Themis will play airs bright and gay,
    Armed with this "vocal REID"!

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

"'Now I'm furnished,'" hummed the Baron. "'Now I'm furnished'--with
several books for my journey, and----" "Tickets, please," broke in the
inspector. "Just when I was comfortable," growled the Baron; "but no
matter. And now for the _Pen and Pencil Sketches_."

[Illustration: "Little Billee."]

The father of Mr. STACY MARKS predestined him for the coach-building
business. Providence, interposing, made him a painter, and the gaiety of
nations has been increased by the possession of some storks. In _Pen and
Pencil Sketches_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS) he has given the world some
reminiscences of a career justly crowned by the laurels of the Royal
Academy. The work is in two volumes, and my Baronite says would have
been more than twice as good had it been in one. The first volume is
charming, with its chat about LEIGH'S studio and the men met there; of
CHARLES KEENE and the delightful cruise off Gravesend in the _William
and Mary_; of merry days with the St. John's Wood clique; of nights at
ARTHUR LEWIS'S; and of days with FRED WALKER. When the flood of memory
runs dry, and there still remains a second volume to be produced, Mr.
MARKS grows desperate, and shovels in anything he finds handy in the
pigeon-holes of his desk. Thus the pleased reader finds reprinted
articles that appeared in the _Spectator_ thirty years ago, when Mr.
MARKS was art critic to that respectable journal. Also there is a
description of BAMPTON, which once thrilled the readers of the _Tiverton
Gazette_. This gives to the second volume something of the smell of an
apple store-room. But the first is good enough to atone for the burden
of the second. By a happy coincidence, whilst Mr. DU MAURIER in _Trilby_
has made all the world in love with _Little Billee_, he appears under
his own name in many of Mr. MARKS' pages, and is always the same
charming, simple-minded, sensitive man of genius. It is pleasant to read
how our Mr. AGNEW--"WILLIAM" the wise call him--gave the young painter
his first substantial lift. WALKER had painted a picture he called
"_Spring_," a young girl gathering primroses in a wood. Yielding to the
advice of his friends, he put on it a price the amount of which abashed
him. Mr. AGNEW saw the picture, recognised its merit, and wrote a cheque
for the full amount asked. When the young artist heard of his good
fortune he burst into tears, and gasping out "I must go and tell my
mother," rushed from the place. Of the original sketches with which the
volumes are enriched are some pen-and-ink drawings by FRED WALKER, which
reveal in a new light the painter of "_The Almshouse_." Amongst many
good stories, Mr. MARKS tells how he was addressed by a clergyman, who,
believing from his name that he was a Jew, invited him to look in at his
church and be converted. "MARCO'S" reply conclusively proved his
possession of a Christian spirit.

[Illustration: "A Late Physician."]

Since SAMUEL WARREN wrote his _Diary of a Late Physician_,--to which, as
the Baron supposes, allusion is made in p. 200 of this book, where the
narrator says, "Thus it happens that the ablest chronicler of their
(_i.e._ medical men's) experiences in our literature was a lawyer,"--no
more interesting, and occasionally sensational, stories have appeared
than those written by Mr. CONAN DOYLE, and published by METHUEN & CO. in
a single volume, under the title of _Round the Red Lamp_. One of these,
_A Straggler of '15_, has been recently developed into a one act
dramatic sketch for Mr. IRVING, who, in the part of the ancient veteran
"lagging superfluous," is reported to have achieved a remarkable
success. For pathos, _A Physiologist's Wife_ is as perfect in style as
it is original in design; to those who want to take something strong
before going to bed, the Baron can confidently recommend _The Case of
Lady Sannox_; while for those of the inferior sex whom Providence has
blessed with nerves, the Baron prescribes to be taken, the last thing at
night, with a favourite pipe and a tumbler of the reader's special
"wanity," the story of _Lot No. 249_; "lights full up," as the stage
directions say, the door locked, and the room previously searched, in
order to be quite sure that no practical joker is in hiding behind
screen, curtains, or under table, who might think it humorous to pop out
when you are deep in the story, and "give you fits."

[Illustration: "Reading _Lot No. 249_."]

In the _Yellow Book_, No. 3, let me praise Mr. DOWSON'S "Apple Blossoms
in Brittany"; a charming unfinished picture. You must guess what the
fruit may possibly be from the blossom. Also very good is HENRY
HARLAND'S "When I am a King."

 BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

       *       *       *       *       *

AIRS RESUMPTIVE.

V.--LILITH LIBIFERA.

(_After Rossetti._)

[Illustration:
  PORTRAIT OF
  THE ARTIST
  IN BED
      -LAM
  PUZZLE--
  TO FIND HIM]

  Under a canopy dark-hued as--well,
    Consult the Bilious Book, page 51--
    Lies pallid WHISKERSLEY'S presentment, done
  By WHISKERSLEY'S own weird unearthly spell.
  His is that Lady known as JEZEBEL
    Or LILITH, Eden's woman-scorpion,
    LIBIFERA, that is, that takes the bun,
  BORGIA, VIVIEN, Cussed Damosel.

  Hers are the bulging lips that fairly break
    The pumpkin's heart; and hers the eyes that shame
      The wanton ape that culls the cocoa-nuts.
  Even such the yellow-bellied toads that slake
    Nocturnally their amorous-ardent flame
      In the wan waste of weary water-butts.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ECCLESIASTICAL HIBERNIAN-IBERIAN MEDDLE AND MUDDLE.--Lord HALIFAX
writes to the Cardinal Archbishop of TOLEDO to protest against the
appointment of an Anglo-Iberian bishop to Spain made by the Archbishop
of DUBLIN & CO.; and his English Eminence Cardinal VAUGHAN writes to
Spanish Eminence to protest against the protest of Lord HALIFAX. Of
which the sum is that all the parties to the case are evidently, for the
time being, Protestants!

       *       *       *       *       *

ORIGIN OF THE BLUSH-ROSE.

  I asked the Queen of Flowers
    Why the blush-rose blushed so red,
  Through the sun-rays and the showers,
    And so bowed its modest head.
  And fair Flora whispered "Hush!
    It would hurt the rose to hear!--
  The beginning of that blush
    Was not love, or shame, or fear.
  All the pretty faëry fancies
    That you find in poet's song,
  And encounter in romances,
    Are entirely false and wrong.
  That flush so fair and fleeting
    Means not passion, pride or pity;
  But hot memories of the meeting
    Of a Vigilance Committee!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. CHANT-I-CLEAR THE MUSIC HALLS.--So the verdict of the L.C.C. was
against the Empire. This, of course, does not prove that the Members of
the Council are amenable to _Chantage_. On this occasion Mrs. CHANT made
them sing to her tune. But the tune will not be popular.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CRUEL POET.--Father Time is the offender when he begins to write lines
on your face.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "ADVICE GRATIS."

_Betsy Trotwood (Mrs. London City) to Mr. Dick (Mr. H-w-s)._ "NOW HERE
YOU SEE SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN'S CHILD, AND THE QUESTION I PUT TO YOU IS,
_WHAT SHALL I DO WITH HIM?_ COME, I WANT SOME VERY SOUND ADVICE."

THE CONTEMPLATION OF OLD ST. PAUL'S SEEMED TO INSPIRE HIM WITH A SUDDEN
IDEA, AND HE REPLIED BRISKLY, "I SHOULD WASH HIM!"

"MR. H-W-S," SAID MRS. LONDON CITY, "SETS US ALL RIGHT. WE'LL FILL THE
FIRE-ENGINE WITH SOAP-AND-WATER!"--_"David Copperfield," adapted._]

       *       *       *       *       *

A HOPELESS QUEST.

  My mind a perfect blank I've made,
    Upon a disc I've fixed my eyes.
  I hoped, by mesmerism's aid,
    To probe stupendous mysteries.
  Hour after hour in solitude
    I thus have spent, but, to be frank,
  There was no magic trance ensued,
    My mind remained a perfect blank.

  To _séances_ if I repair,
    "A hostile influence" they detect.
  The spirits, of my presence ware,
    Their customary rites neglect.
  A few faint raps, and they have flown,
    With all their perfumes, notes, and flowers.
  The mediums on my entrance frown--
    I am not blest with occult powers!

       *       *       *       *       *

PERFECT.--The _Daily Telegraph_, in a short notice of a present made to
a Mr. OSLER for assisting the police, mentions the unavoidable absence
on this interesting occasion of "Chief Inspector BELTON,"--which is a
good name suggestive of staff attached to "belt on,"--and of "Mr.
Superintendent FERRETT"--than which no better name was ever found, out
of a burlesque novel, for a clever detective.

       *       *       *       *       *

TWO WAYS OF AUDITING.

I.--THE OLD WAY.

SCENE.--_A Chamber in a Civic Building. The Town Clerk and the Auditor
discovered at a table covered with papers._

_Clerk._ Then I believe that you are entirely satisfied with the
accounts?

_Auditor._ Oh, perfectly. (_After a pause._) There is one item
I wanted to ask about--I've no doubt you'll be able to explain it
satisfactorily--it's this "£25 for ginger-beer to the Mayor and Council
on the occasion of opening the new Cemetery." Does not--er--that sum
represent a rather large number of bottles?

_Clerk_ (_in an off-hand way_). Well, we put down ginger-beer, you know,
as it _looks_ better, and there's a rather strong temperance party in
the borough. Of course, it was really champagne--"extra sec," too, you
bet!

_Auditor._ Oh, of course. I merely mentioned the matter for the sake of
form. And the "£15 for cigars"--that was an expenditure incurred at the
same time, I conclude?

_Clerk_ (_carelessly_). Oh, yes. Y'see, one of the Councillors is the
leading tobacconist in the place.

_Auditor_ (_relieved_). Ah, that accounts for it. Then these "models of
the Crematorium in gold and jewels, as brooches for the wives of the
Councillors"--I see they come to £105 in all.

_Clerk_ (_sternly_). You don't _object_ to the brooches, I presume?

_Auditor_ (_anxiously_). Oh, not at all. Not in the least. A
most--er--praiseworthy method of spending the ratepayers' money.

_Clerk._ Quite so. Our Mayor's our leading jeweller, you know. So, as
you've put "Examined and Approved," shall we go in to lunch? For a "cold
collation on the occasion of the audit" our Council always allows £10.
It'll be rather a good feed.

    [_Exeunt into banqueting apartment._

II.--THE NEW WAY.

_Auditor._ Oh, what larks!

    [_Subsides into a chair, and takes two minutes to recover from
    his fit of merriment._

_Clerk_ (_surprised_). I really fail to see where the joke comes in.

_Auditor._ Oh, don't you know? I'm one of the new class of comic
auditors--"made in Manchester." What tickles me is this item of £17 for
gold match-boxes for lighting the cigars of the Mayor and Aldermen on
the occasion of the visit to the Sewage Farm. _There's_ persiflage, if
you like!

_Clerk_ (_smiling_). I'm glad you take so humorous a view of the matter.
Of course you allow that expenditure?

_Auditor._ Allow it! Not for worlds. Then--(_with difficulty restraining
another outburst of mirth_)--how about "£27 for oysters and Chablis"
after the visit?

_Clerk._ The Council naturally required some refreshment at the end of
the journey--quite a quarter of a mile, in their own carriages--and
oysters were rather dear just then--a little out of season.

_Auditor_ (_after a guffaw_). Capital! "Out of season"--out of reason,
too, _I_ should say. Of course I must surcharge the oysters and Chablis.
Really, I'm enjoying myself immensely!

_Clerk_ (_gloomily_). I hope the Council will feel equal enjoyment at
your report. Do you mean seriously----

_Auditor._ Seriously! Not a bit of it. I tell you I'm a comic character.
And what better practical joke can one play than suddenly to come down
on public officials with an audit disallowing all their little personal
luxuries? Afraid I must strike out these items of "Visits to Olympia by
Corporation to inspect the lighting arrangements," and "Ditto at Empire
and Alhambra Theatres." No doubt the Aldermen will be glad to pay for
them themselves. Now I think the business is finished. Lunch? No,
thanks. A screaming joke like this is lunch enough for me.

    [_Crams handkerchief in mouth, and exit._

       *       *       *       *       *

CANT _v._ CANT.

  If "want of decency is want of sense,"
    So want of sense may very likely lead
  To want of decency. The poor pretence
    Of interested vice sense will not heed.
  A satyr's satire is but sorry stuff;
    Anti-Cant's canting is most sickening fudge.
  Belial, who backs his trade with bounce and bluff,
    Wins not a case where wisdom is the judge.
  Protests against the pryings of the prude
    Are not to help the profitably lewd.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE POLITE GUIDE TO THE CIVIL SERVICE.

(_By an Affable Philosopher and Courteous Friend._)

HOW TO ENTER THE CIVIL SERVICE.

In the good old days of yore there was little trouble in obtaining
admission to the Civil Service. All that was necessary was a slight
knowledge of a Cabinet Minister, and a smattering of schooling. The
latter might be obtained at Eton, Winchester, Rugby, Westminster, or
Harrow. The acquaintance of the Minister, of course, had to be made by
your father. You were too young to have attracted the attention of so
important a personage. Suppose you had reached the mature age of
eighteen, and had given up the round jackets and collars of boyhood, and
had assumed "stick-ups" and "cutaways," your father would probably ask
you "What you intended to do next?"

"No, my dear fellow," would be the paternal reply to a suggestion about
Trinity or Christ Church. "I am afraid I can't manage either. You see,
your two elder brothers went to the University, but then we could find
_them_ family livings. It would be useless to let you read for the Bar,
because we haven't any of us married into a single firm of Solicitors;
and in these hard times I really can't afford to buy you a commission."

You would notice _sotto voce_ that when ways and means were being
discussed, times were always hard.

"I suppose you could be a doctor if you pleased; but walking the
hospitals is not a particularly pleasant occupation. Then there is
another opening--why not try the Civil Service?"

You would rather freshen up at this. You would have read in a comic
paper, that never will be nameless, that Government clerks were like the
fountains in Trafalgar Square (old style), "because they played from ten
to four."

"Well, yes," you would return. "I don't think I should mind that so
much. It would be rather fun to go to Paris as an _attaché_."

"I'm afraid I couldn't quite manage that, my dear boy," your fond parent
would respond. "They don't pay _attachés_ at first, and so you would
have to be satisfied with the War Office or the Admiralty instead of the
Foreign Office."

"All right, Pater," you would say, and leave the matter in the hands of
the elder generation.

Then your father would write to any Cabinet Minister of his acquaintance
about things in general and nothing in particular, and would add a
"P.S." asking for a nomination. In due course a reply would come
granting the sweet boon. A test examination would follow of a
perfunctory character, and an intimation of your appointment would be
the sequel. Then you would take up your daily residence in Pall Mall or
Whitehall for twenty or thirty years and then retire as a Knight or a
C.B. Thus was done in the comparatively long ago. But now-a-days another
plan has to be adopted.

Instead of entering the Civil Service as a junior join it as a senior.
As a preliminary you must get into the House. This is simpler than
having to cram and then stand the racket of a competitive examination.
Any one under certain conditions can enter Parliament, but the Civil
Service Commissioners bar the entrance to the Government offices with
equally certain regulations. For the sake of argument let me assume that
you are in the House. You have stood for Slocum-on-the-Marsh, and have
persuaded the Slocum-on-the-Marshers to elect you. As an M.P. you are
duly qualified to accept any appointment under the Crown when the
Government ask you. The best plan is to think of an office and then add
one to it--yourself.

"Why not the Public Squander Department?" you ask yourself. To which you
reply with a second question, "Why not?"

Yes, the P. S. D. is not half bad. But how to get into it. Well, why not
take up Milestones? All the world knows that the Public Squander
Department are responsible for all the Milestones not under the
superintendence of the county authorities. Go for the Milestones.

Begin with a question. Learn that the Milestones in the Old Bath Road
are in many cases illegible. Request the Secretary of the Public
Squander Department to inform you when the inscription of such and such
a Milestone was last restored? The official will fence the query.
Probably his Private Secretary, considering you a new man, will have
failed to furnish the necessary information. You must expect a little
retardation at the first set-off.

And here let me point out for your future guidance the importance of
having a private secretary thoroughly up to his work. Had your answerer
been possessed of the proper sort of assistant you would have been
discovered, respectfully button-holed, and perforce satisfied. You would
never have had the heart to put your question about the Milestones. But
the particular Private Secretary of your answerer being _not_ up to his
work you get snubbed.

But don't be discouraged; stick to your Milestones.

[Illustration]

Bombard "the Right Hon. Gentleman opposite" with questions. Ask him for
particulars about the Milestones in the Old Kent Road and on Salisbury
Plain. If he requests notice, give him notice. By degrees you will find
that you are becoming an institution. Milestones are your specialty.
When the House is sitting demand particulars. When the House is up,
write to the papers. Move for returns about Milestones. Go down to
Slocum-on-the-Marsh and read papers on Milestones. If possible, be made
a F.S.A. on the strength of your knowledge of Milestones. So identify
yourself with Milestones that when your name is casually mentioned
anywhere, let it be common form for some one to say, "Of course, the
chap who looks after the Milestones."

Wait patiently until your side move over from the Opposition to the
Government benches. Then will come your opportunity. You will have sat
upon a Milestone Commission. You have been very instrumental in getting
Milestones polished. You have caused Milestones to be multiplied. All
these services must be recognised. And they will.

You will find yourself offered the Secretaryship of the Public Squander
Department--to take care of the Milestones. Accept it. You will now have
become a Civil Servant. On some future occasion I may suggest how you
may successfully perform your duties in your new position.

[Illustration: A REALIST IN FICTION.

"I SAW A RABBIT RUN THROUGH THAT HEDGE!"

"NO, DEAR. IT WAS IMAGINATION!"

"ARE 'MAGINATIONS WHITE BEHIND?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

DEFINITION.--A London Square is the Paradise of Perambulators.

       *       *       *       *       *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

PART XVIII.--THE LAST STRAW.

SCENE XXVII. (_continued_).--_The Chinese Drawing Room._ SPURRELL'S
_ingenuous remark upon the coincidence of the title of the volume in his
hand with the name of his bull-dog has produced a painful silence, which
no one has sufficient presence of mind to break for several seconds._

_Miss Spelwane_ (_to herself_). Not CLARION BLAIR! Not even a poet! I--I
could _slap_ him!

_Pilliner_ (_to himself_). Poor dear VIVIEN! But if people will insist
on patting a strange poet, they mustn't be surprised if they get a nasty
bite!

_Lady Maisie_ (_to herself_). He _didn't_ write _Andromeda!_ Then he
hasn't got my letter after all! And I've been such a _brute_ to the poor
dear man! _How_ lucky I said nothing about it to GERALD!

_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). So he _ain't_ the bard!... Now I
see why MAISIE's been behavin' so oddly all the evenin'; she spotted
him, and didn't like to speak out. Tried to give me a hint, though.
Well, I shall stay out my leave now!

_Lady Rhoda_ (_to herself_). I thought all along he seemed too good a
sort for a poet!

_Archie_ (_to himself_). It's all very well; but how about that skit he
went up to write on us? He _must_ be a poet of sorts.

_Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris_ (_to herself_). This is fearfully puzzling. What
made him say that about "Lady Grisoline"?

_The Bishop_ (_to himself_). A crushing blow for the Countess; but not
unsalutary. I am distinctly conscious of feeling more kindly disposed to
that young man. Now why?

    [_He ponders._

_Lady Lullington_ (_to herself_). I thought this young man was going to
read us some of his poetry; it's too tiresome of him to stop to tell us
about his bull-dog. As if anybody cared _what_ he called it!

_Lord Lullington_ (_to himself_). Uncommonly awkward, this! If I could
catch LAURA'S eye--but I suppose it would hardly be decent to go just
yet.

_Lady Culverin_ (_to herself_). Can ROHESIA have known this? What
possible object could she have had in----And oh, dear, how disgusted
RUPERT will be!

_Sir Rupert_ (_to himself_). Seems a decent young chap enough! Too bad
of ROHESIA to let him in for this. I don't care a straw what he is--he's
none the worse for not being a poet.

_Lady Cantire_ (_to herself_). What _is_ he maundering about? It's
utterly inconceivable that _I_ should have made any mistake. It's only
too clear what the cause is--_Claret!_

_Spurrell_ (_aloud, good-humouredly_). Too bad of you to try and spoof
me like this before everybody, Miss SPELWANE! I don't know whose idea it
was to play me such a trick, but----

_Miss Spelw._ (_indistinctly_). Please understand that nobody here had
the _least_ intention of playing a trick upon you!

_Spurr._ Well, if you say so, of course----But it looked rather like it,
asking me to read when I've about as much poetry in me as--as a pot hat!
Still, if I'm _wanted_ to read aloud, I shall be happy to oblige----

_Lady Culv._ (_hastily_). Indeed, _indeed_, Mr. SPURRELL, we couldn't
think of troubling you under the circumstances! (_In desperation._)
VIVIEN, my dear, won't you _sing_ something?

    [_The company echo the request with unusual eagerness._

_Spurr._ (_to himself, during_ Miss SPELWANE'S _song_). Wonder what's
put them off being read to all of a sudden. (_As his eye happens to rest
on the binding of the volume on his knee._) Hullo! This cover's pink,
with silver things, not unlike cutlets, on it! Didn't EMMA ask me----?
By George, if it's _that!_ I may get down to the Housekeeper's Room,
after all! As soon as ever this squalling stops I'll find out; I _can't_
go on like this! (Miss SPELWANE _leaves the piano; everybody plunges
feverishly into conversation on the first subject--other than poetry or
dogs--that presents itself, until_ Lord _and_ Lady LULLINGTON _set a
welcome example of departure._) Better wait till these county nobs have
cleared, I suppose--there goes the last of 'em--now for it!... (_He
pulls himself together, and approaches his host and hostess._) Hem, Sir
RUPERT, and your ladyship, it's occurred to me that it's just barely
possible you may have got it into your heads that I was something in the
_poetical_ way.

_Sir Rup._ (_to himself_). Not this poor young chap's fault; must let
him down as easily as possible! (_Aloud._) Not at all--not at all!
Ha--assure you we quite understand; no necessity to say another word
about it.

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). Just my luck! They quite understand! No
Housekeeper's Room for me this journey! (_Aloud._) Of course I knew the
Countess, there, and Lady MAISIE, were fully aware all along----(_To_
Lady MAISIE, _as stifled exclamations reach his ear._) You _were_,
weren't you?

_Lady Maisie_ (_hastily_). Yes, yes, Mr. SPURRELL. Of course! It's all
_perfectly_ right!

_Spurr._ (_to the others_). You see, I should never have thought of
coming in as a visitor if it hadn't been for the Countess; she would
_have_ it that it was all right, and that I needn't be afraid I
shouldn't be welcome.

_Lady Culv._ To be sure--any friend of my sister-in-law's----

_Lady Cant._ ALBINIA, I have refrained from speech as long as possible;
but this is really _too_ much! You _don't_ suppose I should have
introduced Mr. SPURRELL here unless I had had the strongest reasons for
knowing, however he may be pleased to mystify us now, that he, and
nobody else, is the author of _Andromeda!_ And I, for one, absolutely
decline to believe in this preposterous story of his about a bull-dog.

_Spurr._ But your ladyship must have known! Why, you as good as asked me
on the way here to put you down for a bull-pup!

_Lady Cant._ Never, never! A bull-pup is the last creature I should ever
dream of coveting. You were obliging enough to ask me to accept a
presentation copy of your verses.

_Spurr._ Was I? I don't exactly see how I _could_ have been, considering
I never made a rhyme in my life!

_Sir Rup._ There, there, ROHESIA, it was _your_ mistake; but as we are
indebted to it for the pleasure of making Mr. SPURRELL's
acquaintance----

_Lady Cant._ I am not in the habit of making mistakes, RUPERT. I don't
know what you and ALBINIA and MAISIE may know that I am in ignorance of,
but, since you seem to have been aware from the first that Mr. SPURRELL
was not the poet you had invited here to meet me, will you kindly
explain what has become of the _real_ author?

_Sir Rup._ My dear ROHESIA, I don't know and I don't _care!_

_Lady Cant._ There you are _wrong_, RUPERT, because it's obvious that if
he is not Mr. SPURRELL, his absence has to be accounted for in _some_
way.

_Spurr._ By Jove, I believe I can put you on the track. I shouldn't
wonder if he's the party these dress clothes of mine belong to! I
daresay you may have noticed they don't look as if they were made for
me?

_Lady Cant._ (_closing her eyes_). Pray let us avoid any sartorial
discussions! We are waiting to hear about this person.

_Spurr._ Well, I found I'd got on his things by mistake, and I went up
as soon as I could after dessert to my room to take 'em off, and there
he was, with a waste-paper basket on his head----

_Lady Cant._ A waste-paper basket on his head! And pray what should he
have _that_ for?

_Spurr._ He said he wouldn't take it off till he saw me. And I never saw
anyone in such a mess with ink and flour as he was!

_Lady Cant._ Ink and flour, indeed! This rigmarole gets more ridiculous
every moment! You can't seriously expect anyone here to believe it!

    [ARCHIE _discreetly retires to the smoking-room._

_Spurr._ Well, I rather think somebody must have fixed up a booby trap
for _me_, you know, and he happened to go in first and get the benefit
of it. And he was riled, very naturally, thinking _I_'d done it, but
after we'd had a little talk together, he calmed down and said I might
keep his clothes, which I thought uncommonly good-natured of him, you
know. By the way, he gave me his card. Here it is, if your ladyship
would like to see it.

    [_He hands it to_ Lady CULVERIN.

_Lady Culv._ "Mr. UNDERSHELL!" ... ROHESIA, that _is_ CLARION BLAIR! I
_knew_ it was _something_ ending in "ell." (_To_ SPURRELL.) And you say
Mr. UNDERSHELL is here--in this house?

_Spurr._ Not now. He's gone by this time.

_The Others_ (_in dismay_). Gone!

_Spurr._ He said he was leaving at once. If he'd only told me how it
was, I'd have----

_Lady Cant._ I don't believe a single word of all this! If Mr. SPURRELL
is not CLARION BLAIR, let him explain how he came to be coming down to
Wyvern this afternoon!

    [_Partial reaction in company._

_Spurr._ If your ladyship doesn't really know, you had better ask Sir
RUPERT; _he_'ll tell you it's all right.

_Lady Cant._ Then perhaps _you_ will be good enough to enlighten us,
RUPERT?

_Sir Rup._ (_driven into a corner_). Why, 'pon my word, I'm bound to say
that I'm just as much in the dark as anybody else, if it comes to that!

_Spurr._ (_eagerly_). But you wired me to come, Sir! About a horse of
yours! I've been wondering all the evening when you'd tell me I could go
round and have a look at him. I'm here instead of Mr. SPAVIN--_now_ do
you understand, Sir RUPERT? I'm the Vet.

    [_Suppressed sensation._

_Sir Rup._ (_to himself_). This is devilish awkward! Don't quite know
what to do. (_Aloud._) To--to be sure you are! Of course! That's it,
ROHESIA! Mr. SPURRELL came down to see a horse, and we shall be very
glad to have the benefit of his opinion by-and-by.

    [_He claps him amicably on the shoulder._

_Lady Cant._ (_in a sepulchral tone_). ALBINIA, I think I will go to
bed.

    [_She withdraws._

_Sir Rup._ (_to himself_). There'll be no harm in letting him stay, now
he _is_ here. If ROHESIA objects, she's got nobody but herself to blame
for it!

_Spurr._ (_to himself_). They won't want to keep me upstairs much longer
after this! (TREDWELL _enters, and seems to have something of importance
to communicate to_ Sir RUPERT _in private._) I wonder what the dooce is
up _now!_

[Illustration: "Albinia, I think I will go to bed!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

TO LETTINA.

(_By a Profound Thinker._)

  I don't know why, but fifty times a day,
    To you my thoughts persistently will fly,
  You come to me, and, coming, come to stay--
                    I don't know why.

  Sometimes I catch myself inclined to try
    From heart and mind to banish you away.
  I always fail. If you are not too shy,
    Just write a line to tell me that I may
  Think fondly of you. Then in future I
    Shall think of you, and never want to say
                    I don't know why.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NEW CANDIDATE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I trust you will give me the hospitality of your
columns (and thus save me the cost of extensive advertising) to announce
that I intend to offer myself as a candidate for all the eleven
divisions at the forthcoming School Board Election. I do this for
several reasons. In the first place, as I have no more chance in any one
place more than in any other, I feel it quite impossible to make any
choice. Besides, to be elected at the top of eleven polls would be an
unique distinction, second only to being defeated at the bottom of
eleven. In the next place, as I can find no other persons who will come
forward on my platform, I am bound to offer myself everywhere. My views
are extensive, not to say peculiar. On the religious question, I agree
with everything that has been said by everybody. I hope in this way to
avoid incurring _odium theologicum_ of any kind. I am in favour of no
one paying rates unless he has children actually at a Board School. I am
told that this will not secure for me the Labour Vote, but it ought, at
any rate, to rally to my side all the "intelligent and respectable." On
all other points I believe I am well fitted to sit on the London School
Board. I understand that at its meetings oysters and Chablis are
sometimes the order of the day. If I am returned, my main object, I avow
it frankly, will be to make them the standing order. Soliciting the vote
of every patriotic citizen, I am,

  Yours up-to-(being-a-candi-)date,

  _October 27._

  WOTTOL ARK.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "HE'S HAPPY NOW."

["A CONSTANT READER'S" favourite craze is now being discussed in all the
papers.]

"I AM SO GLAD THIS SUBJECT IS BEING THOROUGHLY VENTILATED. IT MUST BE
DOING SO MUCH GOOD AMONG THE YOUNG."]

       *       *       *       *       *

MAY_E_NNAISE _v._ MAY_O_NNAISE: A REJOINDER.

  My poor Mayonnaise, they have sullied your fame!
    They would alter your spelling, my sweet Mayonnaise.
  The younger DUMAS has _e-mended_ your name
    And sent you forth "o"-less the rest of your days.

  So this man of romances--this writer of plays--
    Who has woven full many a plot in his time--
  Would force us to spell you henceforth May_e_nnaise.
    Nay! _this_ is a plot little short of a crime!

  'Twill make not an atom of diff'rence to me.
    The younger DUMAS may discourse as he will;
  He's welcome, with _Weller_, to "spell with a 'wee'"--
    To me and the world you are May_o_nnaise still.

  He says, at the time when the city Mayenne
    Was besieged by an army and riddled with shot,
  Your charms were acknowledged and praised by the men.
    _Was that army not led by Sir Thomas de Rot?_

  Say, Queen of the Sauces, which vow'l shall it be?
  Will you yield up the name your admirers bestow?
  Pronounce--while your lover is down on _an "E"_--
  Is it that which you choose? Is it yes? or _a "NO"?_

       *       *       *

    This correspondence must now cease.--ED.

       *       *       *       *       *

"WHERE IS HE?"--With diamond robberies and darksome murders, of which
the perpetrators are still at large, we are all crying out for a real
genuine "SHERLOCK HOLMES." We, WATSONS, are waiting for him to step
forward and drag various dark mysteries into the light of day.
Cheerfully shall the coming HOLMES be saluted with Mr. BROOKFIELD'S
_refrain_, "O SHERLOCK, you wonderful man!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SOCIAL AGONIES.

_Hostess._ "I HEARD YOU MET MY COUSIN, MAUD LESLIE, AT THE GIBSONS AT
DINNER, MR. WILKINSON, AND THAT YOU WERE CHARMED WITH HER!"

_Mr. Wilkinson._ "CHARMED WITH HER? I SHOULD THINK SO! WHO _WOULDN'T_
BE? WHY, I'VE ABSOLUTELY FORGOTTEN WHO THE LADY WAS I TOOK INTO DINNER,
AND WHO SAT ON MY OTHER SIDE!"

_Lady Visitor._ "I'M AFRAID IT HAPPENED TO BE _ME_, MR. WILKINSON!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"AN AWKWARD CUSTOMER."

AIR--"_The Bold Poacher._"

  When I was bound by Party ties to play the bold Premier,
  I shouldered of my gun, my lads, and started void of fear;
  With my trusty lurcher at my heels, to whom the sport is dear,
  For he's game for fight by day or night at the season of the year!

  As I and my bold comrade were after bird or hare,
  The gamekeeper was watching us; for him we did not care.
  For we were on our ground, my boys, grounds free to tyke or peer;
  And they're my delight by day or night at the season of the year!

  As I and my bold comrade were in the Peers' Preserve,
  We heard the keeper's footsteps, but we did not halt or swerve.
  But I whistled--to keep up my pluck--a song to sportsmen dear:
  "Oh it's my delight on a shiny night, in the season of the year!"

  The Gamekeeper popped through the copse, and faced us with a frown;
  He's got a black-a-vised stern phiz, and a coat o' velvet brown.
  He says "Hillo, Sir! _Poaching?_" I retorts, "Oh, don't _you_ fear!
  A gent may poach his own preserves at the season of the year!"

  He says, "You ought to be ashamed to set so bad example
  A sportsman true won't join the crew who trespass, trap, and trample.
  A dirty bird fouls its own nest!" he adds, with a sour sneer.
  "Swells should not poach by day or night in the season of the year."

  Says I, "You sneer, but I'm your peer, my Sol. The people sent me!
  Stare like an owl, or sneer and scowl, you know you can't prevent me!
  These here Preserves want breaking up, Monopoly's pitch to queer
  Is our delight by day or night, in the season of the year.

  "A-poaching on one's own preserves scarce poaching seems at all.
  My foot is on my native--copse! The old Game Laws must fall.
  The 'Peers' Preserves' the people will throw open--or else clear,
  And you'll have to fight for your old old right at the season of the
      year.

  "You ask me if I like the job? That's neither here nor there!
  I'm simply bound to do it, and I really don't much care.
  If Peers will claim the best o' the game, and strive the rest to
      queer,
  We'll take _our_ right, by day or night, at the season of the year!"

[Illustration: "AN AWKWARD CUSTOMER."

GAMEKEEPER S-L-SB-R-Y. "HALLO! YOUNG FELLOW! POACHING?"

THE "YOUNG FELLOW" R-S-B-RY. "IF I _AM_ POACHING, I'M ON MY OWN
PRESERVES."]

       *       *       *       *       *

LOCAL COLOUR.

Mr. ASQUITH was reported the other day to have said that the Government
was spoken of as having been accused of refusing so-called amendments to
the Employers' Liability Bill in "_peacock_ temper." The _Daily News_,
in referring to this, suggests that "peacock temper" was a misprint for
"pique, or temper." But surely this is not so. Mr. ASQUITH evidently has
given in his adhesion to the new system of "colour adjectives." This
opens great possibilities to the future. Radicals will denounce the
"scarlet scandals of the purple-clad peers." Tories will wax eloquent on
"the pink miasma of revolutionary Radicalism." No one will know what it
all means, but that is part of the programme. Even if this colour scheme
will not work, there is still a justification for the Asquithian phrase.
Everybody has heard of a "foul slander." Why not a "peacock temper"?

       *       *       *       *       *

A Case of Parallelism.

(_Extracts from the Report of a recent Conference._)

"Dr. STANLEY BOYD advocated the use of milk and lentil soup."

"Mrs. STANLEY BOYD thought that all such novels as _The Heavenly Twins_,
_The Manxman_, and _The Wages of Sin_, should be tabooed."

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR PETER.--A well-written letter in the _Times_ last week puts what
maybe called "The Hard Case of Sir PETER EDLIN"--and, indeed, he
must be pretty well case-hardened at the Middlesex Sessions by this
time--clearly and forcibly before the public. Sir PETER EDLIN, it seems,
has been doing treble the amount of work for a two-third's salary. This
should be righted, and the Judge at the Middlesex Sessions should be
independent of the would-be ubiquitous L. C. C. Such is the opinion of
this Correspondent to the _Times_, and it is doubtless the opinion of a
fair and just majority. As _Joseph Surface_ observes in _The School for
Scandal_, "Well, it will give SIR PETER great satisfaction to hear
_this_."

       *       *       *       *       *

ONLY NATURAL.--A shareholder at a recent company meeting complained,
with some amount of feeling, that he found it next to impossible to
obtain a "good penny bun." Can it be that so many people have "taken the
bun" that there are none left?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LINKS.

  'Tis a brilliant autumn day,
  And the breeze has blown away
  All the clouds that lowered gray,
              So methinks,
  As I've half an hour to spare,
  I will go and take the air,
  While the weather still is fair,
              On the Links.

  I admire the splendid view,
  The delicious azure hue
  Of the ocean and--when, _whew!_
              With a crack,
  Lo! there drops a little ball
  Which elects to break its fall
  By alighting on the small
              Of my back.

  In the distance some one cries
  Some remark about my eyes,
  None too pleasant, I surmise,
              From the tone;
  So away my steps I turn
  Till a figure I discern,
  Who is mouching by the burn
              All alone.

  He has lost a new "Eclipse,"
  And a little word that slips
  Front his sulky-looking lips
              Tells me true
  That, besides the missing ball,
  Which is gone beyond recall,
  He has lost--what's worst of all--
              Temper too.

  I conclude it will be best
  If I leave him unaddressed,
  Such a melancholy quest
              To pursue;
  And I pass to where I spy
  Clouds of sand uprising high
  Till they all but hide the sky
              From the view.

  They proceed, I understand,
  From a bunker full of sand,
  Where a golfer, club in hand,
              Freely swears
  As he hacks with all his might,
  Till his countenance is quite
  As vermilion as the bright
              Coat he wears.

  I observe him for a while
  With a highly-tickled smile,
  For it is the queerest style
              Ever seen:
  He is very short and stout,
  And he knocks the ball about,
  But he never gets it out
              On the green.

  Still I watch him chop and hack,
  Till I hear a sudden crack,
  And the club-head makes a track
              In the light--
  There' s a startled cry of "FORE!"
  As it flies, and all is o'er!--
  I remember nothing more
              Till to-night,

  When I find myself in bed
  With a lump upon my head
  Like a penny loaf of bread;
              And methinks,
  For the future I'll take care,
  When I want a little air,
  That I won't go anywhere
              Near the Links.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.

THE STORK AS HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DILEMMA OF THE HEADLESS SPECTRE.

  I've always done my best to please,
    Then wherefore do they scoff?
  A headless ghost, in days like these,
    Is very badly off.

  Some say, for MYERS we ought to go,
    And some for Mr. STEAD.
  I really can't profess to know,
    For I have lost my head.

  They come and ask me for a key
    To life's dark prison cell.
  Oh, what's the use of asking _me?_
    However can _I_ tell?

  I do not understand the speech
    Of all these learned men.
  Wildly I wave my hand at each,
    Again and yet again.

  I feel that I have stayed too late,
    And yet I can't move on.
  I'm utterly inadequate,
    Because my head is gone.

  I wish I were I don't know what,
    I wish that I were dead.
  _I don't know if I am or not_,
    For I have lost my head!

       *       *       *       *       *

INS AND OUTS.

"Cricket was a far superior game to golf or tennis," said Lord KNUTSFORD
to the members of the Victoria Park Cricket Association; and he went on
to tell a story of the first introduction of cricket to Tonga, one of
the Pacific Islands. Everybody took up the game so heartily that State
affairs were allowed to slide altogether, and at last the King of TONGA
had to lay down rules as to the times when the game might be indulged
in. "Even then the Prime Minister was with difficulty prevented from
bowling during forbidden hours." For Tonga read Westminster--where a
good deal of _tongue_--ah!--goes on--and we get a result something like
this:--

"After the usual luncheon interval, the Leader of the Opposition and the
ex-Umpire-General faced the delivery of the First Commissioner of Stumps
and the Scorin' Secretary. The punishment inflicted by the former on the
bowling led to a Cabinet crisis, ending in the Secretary of State
resigning his office and the leather to the Lord High Wicket-keep. The
result of this change was soon apparent, for the Leader of the
Opposition was clean bowled by a quotation from _Hansard_, and his place
was taken by a prominent member from below the Opposition Gangway.

"As the score still mounted, the Ministry decided to apply the Closure
to the game, an effort which was resisted by the whole force of the
Opposition, armed with pads and wickets. During the all-night innings
which ensued the Prime Minister retired hurt, and the Ministry were
finally driven into the Pavilion, where they expressed a decided
intention, in consequence of the underhand bowling of their opponents,
of at once appealing to the country. The Committee of Lords' has placed
its veto on these disorderly proceedings, and 'Down with the Lords' is
likely to be the Ministerial rallying-cry during the forthcoming
Election."

       *       *       *       *       *

A LITERARY DISCOVERY.--It has been hitherto thought that only two "G. O.
M.'s" existed, the one, _par excellence_, being _The_ G. O. M., and the
other, the Right Hon. G. O. MORGAN. But there _is_ a third, and he is
GE-O M(EREDITH). No more at present.

       *       *       *       *       *

TITLE FOR A TEMPERANCE TALE.--Under
the Red Nose!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.

  No novels now, but novelettes;
  Cigars give place to cigarettes.
  Titanic "suns" to twinkling "stars,"
  Pictures to sketches, "pomes" to "pars";
  Bonnets to things like housemaids' caps,
  Banquets to tit-bits, books to scraps,
  And three-vol novels to "short stories."
  Gibbon-like length and epic glories,
  Like mammoths and cave-bears, are gone,
  Earth brings not back the mastodon;
  The microbe takes its place. They kill us
  Not by a giant, but bacillus.
  Monsters, huge dragons, Laidly Worms,
  We fear no more, 'tis unseen "germs"
  That floor us in our life's full pride.
  We want a "Jack the Germicide,"
  And not the Giant Killer now.
  Behemoth and the big bow-wow
  Are gone; for aught not smart and little
  We do not care one jot or tittle!

       *       *       *       *       *

FAMILIAR LATIN QUOTATION (_adapted for the use of Empire, Alhambra, and
Music Halls generally_).--"_Spectaculum veniunt_; _venit inspector_;
_out tipsy_."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: IMPROVEMENTS IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

II.--IMPROVED KITCHEN ARRANGEMENTS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

BEAUTIES OF BOLOGNA.

  Not those, along the route prescribed
    To see them in a hurry,
  Church, palace, gallery, described
    By worthy Mr. MURRAY.

  Nor those detailed as well by whom
    But BAEDEKER, the German;
  The choir, the nave, the font, the tomb,
    The pulpit for the sermon.

  No tourist traps which tire you out,
    A never-ending worry;
  Most interesting things, no doubt,
    Described by Mr. MURRAY.

  Nor yet, O gastronomic mind--
    In cookery a boss, sage
  In recipes--you will not find,
    I mean Bologna sausage.

  Not beauties, which, perhaps, you class
    With your own special curry;
  Not beauties, which we must not pass
    If led by Mr. MURRAY.

  I sing--alas, how very ill!--
    Those beauties of the city,
  The praise of whose dark eyes might fill
    A much more worthy ditty.

  O, Ladies of Bologna, who
    The coldest heart might flurry,
  I much prefer to study you
    Than BAEDEKER or MURRAY!

  Those guide-book sights no longer please;
    Three hours still, _tre ore_,
  I have to lounge and look at these
    _Bellissime signore_.

  Then slow express--South Western goes
    Much faster into Surrey--
  Will take me off to other shows
    Described by Mr. MURRAY.

  But still, _Signore_, there will be,
    By your sweet faces smitten,
  One Englishman who came to see
    What BAEDEKER has written.

  Let BAEDEKER then see the lot
    In frantic hurry-scurry.
  I've found some beauties which are not
    Described by Mr. MURRAY.

       *       *       *       *       *

CLIO AT SALCOMBE.

(_Funeral of James Anthony Froude._)

  Scarce Clio's self, calm-soul'd historic Muse,
  Praise to her fiery votary may refuse,
  Though lacking somewhat the judicial poise
  Of clear mind unperturbed by faction's noise,
  And creed's fanatic clamour, valued most
  But her who heads the grave recording host.
  His vivid pictures live; his virile touch
  (Though oft of the too little or too much
  Ardently heedless in his passionate flow
  Of words that wake and thoughts that warmly glow),
  Quickens the past, and moves the patriot heart
  Of British manhood. His the stylist's part,
  The partisan's impressiveness. He missed
  The highest height, clear, cloudless, morning-kissed.
  But long will he be dear to those who love
  The picturings that charm, the words that move;
  And the grave Muse may well let fall a tear,
  And lay her tribute laurel on his bier.

NEAT AND APPROPRIATE.--To the PROWLINA PRYS and their allies, the
Visiting Injustices, may be addressed the ancient charge made against
certain spies, "Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land have ye come."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A SKETCH AT PADDINGTON.

THE REVEREND MOTLEY, WHO MAKES ONE OF A RIVER-PARTY, FANCIES HE MET A
GLANCE OF RECOGNITION FROM THE EYE OF HIS SOMEWHAT AUSTERE BISHOP, AND
FEELS A TRIFLE UNCOMFORTABLE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

PAT THE PATRIOT.

(_His reflection after reading of the Boa-bolting incident at the Zoo._)

  ST. PATRICK had a potent fist,
    And was a saint right clever,
  When he gave the snakes and toads a twist
    And bothered them for ever.
  But och! here's a betther plan than PAT'S!
    'Twould have saved the saint much bother
  Had he trated the snakes like Kilkenny cats,
    And made them swallow each other.
  And even now 'twould save much row
    In the shplit-up Oirish Parthy,
  Could MCCARTHY'S "bolt" end REDMOND'S revolt,
    Or REDMOND swallow MCCARTHY!

       *       *       *       *       *

SPORTING.--'ARRY is delighted to hear that there is a two-year-old
running named '_Arriet_. "It's spelt Ariette I know," he says, "but
that's just French cussedness."

       *       *       *       *       *

TO A WOULD-BE DESPOT.

  "Could I but rule!" with emphasis you say;
  Then, doubtless, evil would be swept away.
  How to begin, of course, is your affair,
  Such practical arrangements are your care;
  Our task would be no more than to obey!

  Injustice then would speedily decay,
  Merit, and only merit, then would pay;
  Which means, perhaps, I'd be a millionaire
               Could I but rule!

  Well, many kings have lived and reigned their day;
  I rather doubt if your despotic sway
  Would quite fulfil the objects of your prayer;
  Many have tried, and ended in despair,
  And you, perhaps--But still you answer "Nay,
               Could _I_ but rule!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE REAL "SUN OF YORK."--FRANK LOCKWOOD, Solicitor-General.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ART OF NAVAL PLATITUDE.

MR. PUNCH,--Dear Sir,--As an able-bodied seaman and expert on the marine
serpent and other such questions of the hour, I have been very properly
asked for my opinion on the late collisions in the far East. Lest my
utterances should be misrepresented by journals unaccustomed to deal
with refinements of maritime phraseology, I send you a correct report of
my interview.

[Illustration]

"What deduction," began the reporter from the recesses of a deck-chair
that had figured at Trafalgar, "do you make with regard to the future of
naval warfare from the engagements of which we have lately read such
distracting accounts?"

"My leading deduction," I replied, "is that it is difficult beforehand
to conjecture which side is going to win, and impossible afterwards to
discover which has actually won. History, however, and a long course of
technical experience, alike convince me that, given equal courage and
skill on both sides, vessels equally well equipped and armoured and of
precisely similar shape, tonnage, and fighting power, victory may be
expected, in many cases out of a few more, to fall to the party that is
_numerically the stronger of the two_. You are, perhaps, with me on this
point?"

"I confess," he replied, "that you throw for me a new and lurid light on
a question always difficult for the lay mind to grapple with. But tell
me of the torpedo and its mission."

"The deadliness," I said, "of this modern weapon of naval warfare is to
be fully appreciated by such alone as have been its unhappy victims. In
the incredibly short space of time between the moment of impact
and the decease of those who are, as an immediate result, blown to
indistinguishable atoms, no reliable evidence has, in the nature of
things, been taken down from the lips of the people best qualified to
submit it.

"Disconnected fragments of speech, chiefly of a profane character,
constitute the sole testimony upon which we have to base our
conclusions. But we may safely affirm that one of the most, if not _the_
most, important detail in the manipulation of this projectile is the
aim. Wrongly directed it is comparatively innocuous. In the unavoidable
hurry and confusion of the moment, when the attention of the operator is
diverted by the reiterated play of missiles upon his person, possibly a
prey at the very time to insufferable nausea, it is almost impossible to
guarantee the missile from aberration. You will pardon my
technicalities?"

"I thank you," he replied, "and I follow you. But in what way do you
account for the success of the Japanese with these submarine weapons?"

"Peruse the reports," I answered, "and draw your own deductions. '_On
the morning of the 18th_' (the morrow of the battle) '_the Japanese
flotilla of torpedo-boats returned to the Yalu and leisurely destroyed
with torpedoes several stranded Chinese vessels_.'

"Here we have the best conceivable endorsement of my views. That which
in the excitement of the fray they were impotent to achieve, this, with
fitting leisure, unhampered by the annoyance of hostile opposition, and
with the object rigidly fixed, as in a vice, they effected with
unqualified and unquestioned success."

Dazzled by my reflections he proceeded to put a fresh conundrum to me.
"What say you," he asked, "to the resources of China? I see that the
Dowager Empress has sent three millions of taels to the forces."

"The tael," I explained, "is excellent eating. I perceive no immediate
reason for the evacuation of Peking as far as the supply of game is
concerned. This, however, is a side issue, and not strictly nautical in
its bearing.

"To proceed at once, and in conclusion, to the matter of our own naval
supremacy" (for I saw this inevitable question already framed on his
lips), "I will give you in a word the accumulated wisdom of long years
of naval intuition. My motto is '_Always win!_'

"Once let the enemy, however inferior, win, and for the time being you
are beaten. We are--and here I rely not only on my own observation, but
on the testimony of countless myriads of my species--_we are an
insular nation_. Further, _our commerce is largely dependent on our
merchandise_. It was not till I had realised to the full these two
momentous and crucial facts that I arrived at the conclusion which I
have already imparted to you, and now venture to repeat--'_Always win!_'
You bear me out, I imagine?"

"I bear myself," he affably replied; thus concluding an interview in the
course of which there had been no manner of hitch except the usual
nautical one at the moment of his coming aboard; and that was due not to
the absence of braces, but to respect for my position as an Admiralty
Crichton.

There, _Mr. Punch_, you are welcome to make any use you will of a
statement that contains practically and tactically the final word on the
future of naval warfare.

  _Crede_, dear Sir,

  Yours unusually

  EXPERTO.

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW DEPARTURE.

In pursuance of a recent correspondence in the _Times_, it has been
decided to safeguard the rights and legalise the _status_ of
interviewees by the formation of an influential association. _Mr. Punch_
has been accorded an advance proof of the prospectus.

SOCIETY FOR THE PROTECTION OF HELPLESS AND DESERVING INTERVIEWEES.

(_Founded Oct. 24, 1894._)

Chief Offices: Utopia. Operating Room and Infirmary: Harrow Weald.

[Illustration]

COUNCIL.

The MIKADO (President); Sir JOSEPH PORTER, K. C. B. (Vice-President);
BARNABY BAMPTON BOO, Esq., of the _Bab Ballads_; BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO,
ditto, King; Mrs. BOO; REGINALD BUNTHORNE, Esq., Fleshly Poet; The Lord
Bishop of RUMTI-FOO; Sir EDWARD CORCORAN, K.C.B., Capt. R.N.; Lord MOUNT
ARARAT; Lord TOLLOLLER; POOH BAH, Esq., of the Japan Society; Mdlles.
PEEP-BO, PITTI SING, and YUMYUM, of the Savoy Theatre.

Solicitors: Messrs. KOKO & CO. Jester: Mr. JACK POINT.

Jailor and Chucker-out: Mr. WILL SHADBOLT.

OBJECTS OF THE SOCIETY.

(1.) To develop the new calling of Professional Interviewee. (2.) To
provide the newspaper-reading public with amusement. (3.) To supply
eminent humorists and others with enjoyable, rational, and profitable
employment. (4.) And, incidentally, to encourage retiring and diffident
lady interviewers.

RULES.

1. That all persons shall be eligible for membership of the Society,
with the following exceptions:--Infants in arms; Their Descendants and
other Relatives within the Prohibited Degrees; Parties who are balmy on
the Crumpet,; H. M.'s guests at Portland, Newgate, and Broadmoor; JABEZ;
Persons who have written a book; Persons who haven't; Mrs. PROWLINA PRY;
also all the pragmatic and prudish nonentities who have pranced in
prurient print over the unsavoury question lately discussed _ad nauseam_
in the columns of the _D. T._

2. That if the interview be conducted by one of the male sex, the
Society's chucker-out, jester, and solicitors shall always be present.

3. That the following scale of fees, payable by the Interviewer to the
Interviewee, be adopted:--

                                                       £  _s. d._
  Mere Nobody                                            0  0  2
  Nobody Else                                            0  2  6
  Mr. WH-STL-R, over a recent Grievance                  0  6  8
  Minister, of Cabinet Rank                              1  1  0
  Gaiety Girl, of the Front Rank                         1  1  1
  Cabman, of any Rank                                    1  1  2
  Mr. ARTHUR ROBERTS, on Things in General               2  2  0
  Ditto, on the Empire Question                          3  3  0
  Any leading Burglar, Pickpocket, or Company Promoter,
     with discount for cash                              4  4  0
  Pugilist, including services of Policeman and Surgeon  5  5  0
  G. O. M., if you can get at him                       10 10  0
  Eminent Humorist, when irritated                      21  0  0
  Ditto, if a Lady, and pretty (these are scarce)       50  0  0
  Anybody who hasn't yet been Interviewed (these are
      scarcer)                                         100  0  0

4. That the Society be immediately dissolved, in view of pending
litigation.


Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 107, November 3, 1894" ***

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