Punch (71.1876)

July 22, 1876.]

31

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

Scene—The Steps of the Mars and Neptune Club.
Major Phoggs, Captain Togs [of the Pre-JExamination Period).

Jajor Phoggs. Yes. Don't see
how we 're to keep out of the
row. Looks devilish like war,
old man.

Captain Togs. Awfully.
By Jove!

Major Phoggs. Something
for us to do, as well as those
sailor fellahs ?

Captain Togs. Shouldn't
wonder. Anything's better
than Aldershot.—{Pause.)—I
say, old man, where's Servia ?

Major Phoggs. Eh! Servia!
Well, you know, Servia is in
—in Asia Minor. Isn't it ?

Captain Togs. Somewhere
near Turkey, I suppose. Cot
a cigarette ?

Major Phoggs. S'pose we
shall be sent on active service.
Captain Togs. Gad! it
^X^J looks like it. Another Ashan-
tee War. Go and pitch into
somebody—black fellows, as likely as not. Spend a lot of money,
and get a medal for it. Horrid bore !
Major Phoggs. Always fighting blacks now.
Captain Togs. The Montenegroes are regular niggers, ain't they ?
Major Phoggs. Sounds like it. If they 're not niggers, they 're
Turks—much the same thing.

Captain Togs. I thought they were Russian slaves, or serfs, or—
talking of Russians—have you seen the Danicheff ?

Major Phoggs. Too hot to go to the play. What's it about ?
Captain Togs. Awfully good. There's a Russian Princess. A
regular clipper. By Jove! And a pretty slave girl—sort of Russian
Octoroon, you know—Anna something, rather a bore, always crying ;
and a fellah, awfully spooney on her, and so is another fellah. And
that fellah gives her up to the other fellah, and goes into the
Church—Prussian Church, you know, not the English. I couldn't
follow much of the dialect, you know. Those confounded French
people talk so fast.

Major Phoggs. I say, we shall have to rub up our Prench if we
go to war. Eh!

Captain Togs. By Jove, yes. I can translate a menoo, but I'm
hanged if I should like to ask my way of a foreigner. They 're so
infernally stoopid—never can understand a fellah, you know.

Major Phoggs. All amour propre—as they call it—old man.
Let's split a whiskey and pol. [Exeunt from the steps, into Club.

HAPPY THOUGHTS.

I find Tim Mahony. He isn't at Bungay's, having just quitted
that hospitable mansion, but I meet him on the steps of The
Loungers'1 Club. I tell him he is the very man I want to see.

"Ah!" he exclaims, heartily. "Come in! I was just going;

and " (looking at his watch) " I haven't more than-yes " (he

likes to be exact) " I Wejust ten minewts to spare. Come in ! "

[I cannot help making a note, which will be useful in Typical
Developments under the head of " P " (Pronunciation). A Cock-
ney—in _ fact, most Englishmen—would pronounce "minutes" as
" min-nits," but an Irishman sets us right, and gives the " u " its
value : he says " min-newts."

Subsequent Note [after making this remark to a Friend).—An
Englishman makes a distinction between " minutes of time," which
he pronounces " min-nits," and " minutes of proceedings written in
a book," which he pronounces " min-newts." What does an Irish-
man do ? How does an Irishman make the distinction ? . . . .
N.B.—To ask an Irishman this question. Nothing like going to the
fountain-head.

Happy Thought (if the occasion ever arises).—Good name for an
Inn—The Fountain-Head. And what an opportunity for effective
advertisement—" Always go to The Fotjntain-Head ! " This idea
ought to be registered. Why isn't there an Office for the registra-
tion of Ideas ? Not only one Office, because that would be com-
paratively useless ; as, for example, if the Office were in London,
and I were at the Giant's Causeway, or in the Hebrides, and sud-
denly had an idea which I wanted to register sur le champ, it would
be an absurd expense to have to come up to London merely to
register the one idea. Kb ; every Post-Office should be empowered
by Act of Parliament to be also an Ideal Registration Office.

Think this out, and make it a condition of my giving my vote
at the next Election that my candidate shall pledge himself to
do his best to bring in an Ideal Registration Office Bill. Or why
not go in for Parliament myself with this idea, and make it a party
cry ?]

Tim Mahony, who has been speaking to a couple of friends of his
in the Club while I have been making this note in the porch, turns
to me, and says, "Let me introduce you to Jack Bowler, my
cousin. You've often heard me mention him to you."

I bow, and smile politely. This is intended to give them to
understand that I have so frequently heard of Jack Bowler from
Tim Mahony, that to meet him is the realisation of the highest
aspiration of my life. Really, I mean (to myself) " I don't remem-
ber Tim's ever having said anything about him ! "

We bow, and smile. So far is easy ; but what are you to say to a
new acquaintance suddenly introduced after you've finished bowing
and smiling ? In a novel you will find the novelist airily saying,
" After the first civilities had been interchanged, Gustave observed
to his new acquaintance," &c, &c, and they are in "two-two's"
in the middle of an intimate conversation which, of course, has some
bearing on the main plot. But that's the want in an ordinary case.
There is no plot.

Yes, there is. This is not an ordinary case. I have a plot. I
have come to ask Tim about Ireland. I tell them this, whereupon
they laugh. Once begin, after an introduction, with a laugh, and
the fortune of the conversation is made. A laugh in time saves nine
minutes of twaddle.

"Why, Tim," says Bowler, "you've never been to Ireland in
your life, have you ? "

" Never since I was born there," replies Tim : then adds, warmly,
turning to me, "And so you 're going to the old country ? Ah ! I
wish I could go with ye."

"Do!" I say.

" Ah! I can't," he replies, shaking his head—"I'm so busy in town.
I've got such a lot to do, and I've promised Toefham—ye know
Sir John Toeeham ?—No ? Ah ! ye'd like him—he's a good fellow.
An' he's got such a place down at Pemby ! It's Liberty Hall—ye
can do just what ye. like there. I must be with him to-morrow.
Could you put it off for a week or two ? "

" Yes," I answer, " if you would be certain to come with me."
He meditates for a few seconds ; then, as if he had arranged
everything for the next fortnight, he says,

"No, I can't promise: I mustn't disappoint Toffham. Why
don't you come down with us ? There are a lot of fellows you know

going."

" Yes," I object, " but I don't know Sir John Toffham."
Tim Mahony sees no sort of difficulty in this. "What's that
matter?" he asks. "I'll invite you, and you'll go down with

me."

I tell him I have made up my mind to go to Ireland at once, and
shall be very much obliged if he will give me any hints as to routes,
best places to go to, hotels, and perhaps a letter or two of intro-
duction.

"I can do something for you," he says: then, to his cotisin,
" Jack, aren't you goin' to take a brandy-and-soda ? "
He wasn't going to, but he will.

"I thought you said you were," says Tim, beckoning to the
waiter : and then to me, Ye '11 take something ? "

For company's sake, and as a matter of curiosity, never having
met Tim in his own Club before.

His cousin asks me if I would prefer anything to the usual
brandy-and-soda. This I take to be a civil hint to Tim that not
everybody cares about that common but useful compound.

We are served in silence, and I notice that Bowler pays.
Having paid, he retires, saying he '11 be back presently, but if not,
&c., &c.

" Good fellow, Jack Bowler," says Tim, when he has left. "If
he hadn't been engaged to-night, I'd have got him to have dined
here."

" I didn't know," I say, foreseeing an invitation to the Loungers
for to-night, " you were a member here."

" I'm not," he replies. " Me cousin Bowler is ; and what's the
use of our both belonging to the same Club ? Ah, they know me
here ; an' it 'sjust the same as if it were my mm."

Tim Mahony can't assist me. He's not certain that he knows any
(which he pronounces " annie ") fellows in Dublin now. " 'T'ud be
no use me giving ye a lot of letters of introduction, and then to find
nobody there. 'T'ud be wasting yer time," he says.

He is right. In these circumstances I'd better try elsewhere. I
say " Good-bye ! " to him.

" Ye '11 write to me," says he at parting, " an' let me know where
ye are. I'd like to join ye, if I can."

"Do! " Itirge.

"I will."

So we take leave of one another pro tern. He no more intends
joining me in Ireland than I mean going to Australia.