Testy Man (to Miss Meekin). Look here, this is simply scandalous! I've brought it to show you. My little girl in the country sent home some silkworms to her sister in a light paper-box. They were marked "fragile, with care"—and this is how they arrived! (Thrusts a crushed packet, unpleasantly stained, upon Miss Meekin's notice.) That's your stamping, that is!

Miss Meekin. I'm sure I'm very sorry.

Testy M. Sorry! What's the use of that? The silkworms are dead! dead through culpable negligence on the part of someone in this office—and if you'll give me a sheet of paper, I'll let the Postmaster-General know what I think of you here. (Miss Meekin supplies him with paper and an envelope; he dashes down a strong-worded screed with a gold pencil-case.) There, you'll hear more of that—I'll bring these silkworms home to somebody, if I have to do it through Parliament! good-day to you.

Miss Meekin (as he is opening the door). Sir, one moment!

Testy Man. No, I'll listen to no apologies—disgraceful, disgraceful!

Miss Meekin (a little roused). I wasn't going to apologise—only to tell you you've left your pencil-case on the counter.

Testy Man. Oh—er—have I? much obliged. (Disarmed.) And you may give me back that letter—I'll think over it!

Miss Goodchild (to Mrs. Quiverful—a regular client). Oh, Mrs. Quiverful, do you know, you never put any stamp on that letter to Wurra-Gurra? I saw it was in your handwriting.

Mrs. Quiverful. Dear, dear me! how careless—and my boy expecting to hear as usual! So you couldn't send it?

Miss G. Oh, yes, it was sent—I thought you wouldn't like to miss the Mail.

Mrs. Q. But he'll have to pay double at his end—he'll think I grudge the expense, poor boy!

Miss G. (timidly). I—I thought you'd rather it went stamped, so I—I took the liberty of stamping it myself.

Mrs. Q. Did you? Then you're a darling, and I don't care what unkind things Mr. Punch chooses to say about you—there!

Mr. Punch (in background). If they were all like her, he would never have said any unkind things at all, Madam. O si sic omnes!

Mrs. Q. (in some alarm). A—quite so, I'm sure. What a very singular person!

[Scene closes in.

AN APPEAL FROM SCIENCE.

"Am I not worth of as much Consideration as Music and Geology! Why should not I have a Museum?"

Horatian Motto for Mr. Stansfeld & Co.—"Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas." "The humane gent plunges headlong into impropriety."

A REMINISCENCE OF THE NAVAL REVIEW.

I had never seen a Naval Review. It was to come off on the Saturday, and this was the Thursday previous. When therefore in answer to a modest inquiry, I received a wire from Mr. Richard Rossher, Chairman of the Great M. & N. Steamship Company, saying, "Come aboard our new boat, Regina, to-morrow, Friday; tickets and instructions by post," I made up my mind on the spot to accept, if I could return on the Saturday night, as business of the utmost importance demanded my presence in London on Sunday morning. What that business was is nobody's business but mine, so I need not explain. Suffice it to say that to miss a certain appointment on Sunday morning, would have been fraught with most disastrous consequences to myself and others.

I answered Rossher's telegram, "Yes, with pleasure, if you can land me Saturday night." To which the reply was, "Think it can be managed; try to come." To this I wired, "Instructions and tickets received. Am coming." Within two hours I got a message from a Clerk in the M. & N. Office, City, "Rossher on board at Southampton. Too late to wire."

What this was meant to convey I did not understand, but my mind was made up, and very soon my bag was packed, and I was ready for the start. At all events, there was the utter novelty to me of being a guest on board one of the largest vessels afloat in the Indian Merchant Service (I believe it is the Indian Merchant Service, or, as Ollendorff would put it, "the Service of the Indian Merchant,") with a select party, limited, I supposed, to about a dozen "jolly companions every one," and in being taken in and done for en prince, en prince indien.

"Immensely kind of Rossher," I said to myself (and subsequently said it to him) as I alighted at the Waterloo Station, and proceeded at once to the wrong platform. I do not remember ever having been to Waterloo Station without having been to the wrong platform to begin with.

Bag in hand, and coat over arm—the wary sea-dog provides against probable squalls—I strode to another platform—wrong again. "The M. & N. Special," I panted to a porter, who was so taken aback by being appealed to suddenly, that for a few seconds he could only mop his heated brow and stare at me vaguely. Then after repeating my question twice, once to me and once to himself, he shook his head as if he were giving up a conundrum, whereupon to interest him personally in my proceedings I handed him my bag to carry. This looking like real business, he showed himself a man of vast resources by stopping an official in a buttoned-up uniform and a tall chimney-pot hat, and obtaining the information from him. Across the bridge and then second on the left. Off we go. Here we are. Board up labelled "M. & N. Special. Regina." A crowd is pouring in at the wicket-gate. Can they all be going by the M. & N. Special? Yes. I hear the question put, and those not possessing the proper tickets are sternly rejected. Some are sent off to another platform where there is another "M. & N. Special" for the Italia.

I present my ticket. It is examined, clipped, and I am passed in. Seeing a number of people ahead and an empty smoking-carriage close at hand, I jump into this, stow away my bag, and find myself with a quarter of an hour to the good. I get out to look about me. Enter Sir Peter Portland (looking younger than ever, as he always does whenever I meet him) in decidedly fashionable yachting-costume, cap and all (he once owned a yacht), carrying a brown-paper parcel. Delighted to see one another. He secures a seat in my carriage. So does another fellow, name unknown, but evidently a gallant seaman with a weather-beaten countenance. At the last moment hurries up Sir Thomas Quircke, also in full yachting-costume, cap and all, only not so bright and gay as Sir Peter, who I observe has on an evening white waistcoat and patent leather shoes, which combination gives a light and airy and hornpipy appearance to the wearer, which mere navy blue serge can never convey.

We, including the unknown man in