"You shall hear!" said the Oracle. "Stand round, all of you, and adjust your ear-tubes! Dionysius's Ear was not an aural 'circumstance' (as your countryman would say, Cleveland) compared with this. Vox, et præterea nihil, indeed!"
"Nihil—or Nihilism," growled the Trafalgar Square Anarchist, "is the burden of the vox populi of to-day——"
"Vox diaboli, you mean," interrupted the great Funographer, sternly. "And there is no opening for that vox here. Shut up! You are here, misguided mischief-maker, not to spout murderously dogmatic negation, but to listen and—I hope—learn!"
"I trust you have guidance for me," murmured gentle but anxious-faced Charity. "It would, like my ministrations, be most seasonable—as Father Christmas could tell you—for between my innumerable claims, and my contradictory 'multitude of counsellors,' my friends and enemies, my gushingly indiscriminate enthusiasts, and my arid, hide-bound 'organisers,' I was never, my dear Mr. Punch, so completely puzzled in my life."
"Sweet lady," responded the Oracle, with gentle gravity, "there is guidance here for all who will listen; heavenly Charity and diabolic Anarchy, eloquent Statesmanship and adventurous Enterprise, scared Capital and clamorous Labour, fogged Finance and self-assertive Femininity; for the motley and many-voiced Utopia-hunters who fancy they see imminent salvation in Imperial Pomp or Parochial Pump, in Constitutional Clubs or County Councils, in Home Rule, Primrose Leagues, or the Living Wage, in Democracy or in Dynamite, in High Art or Mahatmas, in Science or in Spooks. Take your places, Ladies and Gentlemen! Charity first, if you please, with Father Christmas to her right, leaving room for the little New Year on her left. Listen all, and learn by the various voices of that many-cylindered, marvellous Funographic Machine, my
One Hundred and Fifth Volume!"
