CANDIDLY I ALWAYS HATED YOUR BEASTLY BALLADES AND RONDELS AND ROT IN THE ERECHTHEUM—BUT I HAD THE DECENCY NOT TO TELL YOU SO!"

TWO VIEWS OF THE NEXT INVASION.

THE OPTIMIST.

The British Fleet, by a sad mischance, had disappeared.

It was then that the Nation had to depend upon its second line of defence—the Army.

The enemy flushed with victory, attempted to land, but were met with such a withering fire from the Volunteer Artillery, that they had to abandon the attempt in despair—at least for awhile. They retired for the night, and on the following morning were in front of Westgate-on-Sea. It was then found how wise the Committee of Home Defence had been in their recommendation. Feeling sure that the forces of the Crown would be ample to beat back any hostile attempt to seize a town the centre of one of the best of charities (St. Michael's Convalescent Home), the Committee had deprecated the suggestion of erecting extensive fortifications. Practically Westgate was without walls. But there was a better defence than brickwork. The Authorities had not been idle during the night, having utilised the Pause in the war to bring up two magnificent battalions of Militia—the 7th Rifle Brigade and the 4th Cheshire Regiment. Thus when the enemy succeeded in effecting a landing, they found themselves confronted by the very flower of the British Army. In ten minutes the hostile host were crumpled up like a sheet of paper, and disappeared in hot retreat.

During the following week the entire army of the foe was allowed to land in England, and were speedily exterminated. The contract given out by Government to an advertising undertaker was the means of making that contractor's fortune. Within ten days England was absolutely free from invasion.

"And are you surprised?" asked a journalist, addressing the greatest tactician of the century.

"Surprised!" echoed the other. "Why it was what we all expected from the first!"

THE PESSIMIST.

The British Fleet, by a carefully calculated plan, had disappeared. It was then that the Nation had to depend upon its second line of defence—the Army.

The enemy, although somewhat depressed at the losses they had sustained, attempted to land, and of course were successful. The picked batteries from Woolwich, consisting of the Royal Horse Artillery, opened fire, but without the smallest effect. On the following morning the main force of the enemy appeared in front of Margate, the recently fortified port. It was then found how foolish the Committee of Home Defence had been in their recommendation. Feeling doubtful of the means the Government would have at their command to defend an unprotected town, they had ordered every village on the coast to be surrounded by the most intricate network of bricks and earthworks. And now, in the hour of need, these elaborate preparations were valueless. The troops of the enemy poured into Margate almost without opposition. The forts were silenced in five minutes, and although on the following morning the Household Brigade came to the rescue, the assistance thus afforded was of no avail.

During the succeeding week the entire army of the foe was allowed to land in England, and were immediately victorious. The contract for finding them lodgings in London made somebody's fortune. Within a week England was grovelling in the dust at the feet of her conquerors.

"And are you surprised?" asked a journalist, addressing the greatest tactician of the century.

"Surprised!" he echoed—"why it was what we all expected from the first!"

NEW RIDDLE (WITH THE OLD ANSWER).—Where was ISAACS when the Balance-Sheet went out?

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

No. II.

SCENE—Courtyard of the "Grand Hôtel du Lion Belgique et d'Albion," at Brussels. It is just after Table d'hôte; PODBURY and CULCHARD are sitting on a covered terrace, with coffee.

Podbury (producing a pipe). Not such a bad dinner! Expect they'll rook us a lot for it, though. Rather fun, seeing the waiters all troop in with a fresh course, when the proprietor rang his bell. Like a ballet at the Empire—eh?

Culchard (selecting a cigarette). I'm not in a position to say. I don't affect those places of entertainment myself.

Podb. Oh! Where do you turn in when you want to kick up your heels a bit? Madame Tussaud's? I say, why on earth didn't you talk to that old bloke next to you at dinner? He was trying all he knew to be friendly.

Culch. Was he? I daresay. But I rather understood we came out with the idea of keeping out of all that.

Podb. Of course. I'm not keen about getting to know people. He had no end of a pretty daughter, though. Mean to say you didn't spot her?

"Wanted to know if you were my Tutor!"

Culch. If by "spotting" you mean—was I aware of the existence of a very exuberant young person, with a most distressing American accent? I can only say; that she made her presence sufficiently evident. I confess she did not interest me to the point of speculating upon her relationship to anybody else.

Podb. Well—if you come to that, I don't know that I—still, she was uncommonly—(Happens to glance round, and lowers his voice.) Jove! she's in the Reading-room, just behind us. (Hums, with elaborate carelessness.) La di deedle-lumpty—loodle-oodle-loo—

Culch. (who detests humming). By the way, I wish you hadn't been in such a hurry to come straight on. I particularly wanted to stop at Bruges, and see the Memlings.

Podb. I do like that! For a fellow who wants to keep out of people's way! They'd have wanted you to stay to lunch and dinner, most likely.

Culch. (raising his eyebrows). Hardly, my dear fellow—they're pictures, as it happens.

Podb. (unabashed). Oh, are they? Any way, you've fetched up your average here. Weren't there enough in the Museum for you?

Culch. (pityingly). You surely wouldn't call the collection here exactly representative of the best period of Flemish Art?

Podb. If you ask me, I should call it a simply footling show—but you were long enough over it. (CULCHARD shudders slightly, and presently pats his pockets.) What's up now? Nothing gone wrong with the works, eh?

Culch. (with dignity). No—I was merely feeling for my note-book. I had a sudden idea for a sonnet, that's all.

Podb. Ah, you shouldn't have touched those mussels they gave us with the sole. Have a nip of this cognac, and you'll soon be all right.

[CULCHARD scribbles in lofty abstraction; PODBURY hums; Mr. CYRUS K. TROTTER, and his daughter, MAUD S. TROTTER, come out by the glass door of the Salon de Lecture, and seat themselves at an adjoining table.

Miss Trotter. Well, I guess it's gayer out here, anyway. That Reading Saloon is just about as lively as a burying lot with all the tombs unlet. I want the address of that man who said that Brussels was a second Parrus.

Mr. Trotter. Maybe we ain't been long enough off the cars to jedge yet. Do you feel like putting on your hat and sack, and sorter smellin' round this capital?

Miss T. Not any. I expect the old city will have to curb its impatience to see me till to-morrow. I'm tired some.

Culch. (to himself). Confound it, how can I—! (Looks up,