Punch, or the London Charivari, January 5th, 1895

by Various

It does not take very long to make yourself quite at home as Secretary of the Public Squander Department—the office I will suppose you to be filling. You will find everything ready to your hand. All you will have to remember is this—the golden rule of the Service—that what was done last year, should be followed this, and arranged for next. Ministries may come and Cabinets may go, but the P. S. D. continues for ever. The policy of the office must never be disturbed. If it has been the custom (say) to put orange-trees in the open spaces under the control of the Department out to bloom in February, under no consideration whatever must the date be changed. It may be advanced (generally in the newspapers when there is nothing more interesting ripe for discussion) that July would be the better month. It may be declared that an orange-tree taken from a hothouse and thrust into the uncertain atmosphere of the Metropolis, and indeed the provinces, stands less chance of weathering that climate in the second month of the year than it would in the seventh. That may be very true, but what has been done by the Public Squander Department once should be repeated for ever. If an alteration has to be made it must not be accomplished except "under-pressure." Questions must be asked in the House, returns moved for, and all the rest of it. So long as the alteration can be resisted, it is the duty of every member of the Department to stand shoulder to shoulder to oppose. You will find a case in point in the matter of your own pet grievance the condition of "Milestones." You will recollect (if you have a good memory) that "Milestones" were the steps of the staircase that led you from the hall of Parliament to the comfortable apartments reserved for the special use of the Secretary of the P. S. D.

"I do not think we need bother about those Milestones," you will say to the Chief Clerk after you have got accustomed to your messengers and have chosen your easiest of easy chairs; "I daresay there are many matters of more pressing importance."

The courteous official to whom you have made the suggestion will readily acquiesce, and then inform you that a deputation are anxious to see you upon the subject. And here you will find one of the disadvantages inseparably connected with making a question exclusively your own. The moment you come into power you are expected to do something. It is of course unreasonable, but none the less for that unavoidable.

"I think you had better see them, Sir," the Chief Clerk will observe. "They know the ropes fairly well, and I do not think we shall get much peace until you have got rid of them. Of course, we have sent them travelling a bit, but they have got back to us at last."

"Sent them a—travelling?" you will query.

"Well, yes. We have referred them to this department, where they have been asked to apply to that. They have been passed on from office to office until they have come back to us. It is the rule of the game. And now I think the time has arrived when you should see them in person."

Of course, you have nothing to do but to take your subordinate's advice. It is one of the regulations of the Civil Service that the tail wags the dog. It stands to reason that a man who has grown grey in the Department is more likely to know the business of the bureau better than you who have just joined. So the spokesman of the deputation receives a polite communication informing him that you will be pleased to see him and his friends at such and such a date. Of course, you are furnished with the names of the friends in advance, and your private secretary (your right-hand man) makes it his special business to post you up in all that is necessary about them. The day arrives, and with it the deputation. If the House is sitting, you can see the Members in your own room. It looks well if you can show your accosters how small a chamber you occupy, and how hard at work you have to be at all hours of the day and night. Failing a meeting in Parliament, you can receive them in the Department itself. In this case contrive, if possible, to see them in official uniform. Chat with them after you have been to a levée, or Cabinet, or something of that sort. It gives you a distinct advantage if you can overawe them with the glories of a well-feathered cocked-hat, and many yards (chiefly on the back of your coat) of gold lace.

You will have, of course, in attendance upon you several heads of departments. These gentlemen will say nothing, but will look wonders. If you are at loss for figures or facts, you will glance at them and make a bold statement. That daring declaration will, of course, be qualified with the announcement that it is made "to the best of your belief." You will turn your face towards the heads, and they will receive your mute appeal with sympathetic attention. They will not say anything, but will, I repeat, look wonders. They will not be comprehensible, but merely convincing.