Chapter 2

SIR,--I am writing in the name of all the righteously indignant sons of Erin, to protest against the base shameless and infamous treatment accorded to that glorious champion and apostle of National freedom, the hero, WILLIAM O'BRIEN, by the despicable set of traitors, who, under cover of the title of "Her Majesty's Government," are trampling, at Westminster, the liberties of my beloved country in the mud and preparing to fling her sons by thousands into the depths of the foul and filthy dungeons already marked out for their reception. It is reported that this, the first victim of their malignant spleen and hatred, is to be subjected to the gross indignity of receiving the ordinary treatment of a common criminal, and be subjected to the usual regulations of gaol discipline. Now, Sir, in the name of all that is enlightened and progressive, I ask, if, at the close of the nineteenth century, such outrage is to be committed? Surely in answer to my appeal the generous people of England will rise in their might and with one voice compel the myrmidons appointed to carry out the malignant and iniquitous behests of the Castle to provide the noble spirit that they had intended to torture with chains and darkness with a comfortable and roomy four-post bedstead, cheerful apartments, a champagne dinner with not less than seven courses, daily carriage exercise, the use of a piano and billiard-table if required, and an introduction to the best society of the neighbourhood, including the Bishop, the Mayor and other notables. Thus, and thus only, should Irish martyrs be allowed to suffer for Ireland's wrongs, and in this way alone will the Irish people in their thousands consent even to the momentary incarceration of the heralds of that mighty struggle with a tyrannic despotism that they are heroically maintaining, backed by the hearty and enthusiastic support of an onlooking and applauding Universe, against the blind and blustering bullying of a blood-thirsty Government. If I write with moderation and temperately it is because I feel confidently that the trivial relaxations I propose must, if not at once conceded by, be forthwith instantly wrung from the thieves and scoundrels who at the present moment are responsible for the Executive of my patient and law-abiding country. Relying on the generous impulse of all those who would not wish to see the patriot deprived of his home comforts, I beg, Sir, with much self-restraint, to subscribe myself,

Your calm and dispassionate Correspondent,

EMANCIPATOR HIBERNICUS.

SIR,--What's all this fuss about pushing this fellow O'BRIEN into a cell, nine feet by six? By all means push him in, or into one six feet by six, for anything I care. If he can't breathe the fresh air he wants inside, what of that? Serve him right. He has been egging on the dupes and fools who have listened to him to commit acts that, if the Executive were a trifle stronger, would soon crowd every gaol in the country to the roof, and now he has got a taste of the same medicine himself. I hope he likes it. As to his talking of "suffering in his health," who, I should like to know, supposes he goes to prison to improve it. Again, I say, "Serve him right!" and if he is let out some eighteen months hence well broken down, perhaps the experience will teach him to hold his tongue in future, and not go posturing on a platform with his political claptrap, for the purpose of interfering with the vested interests and inalienable rights of

Yours, rabidly,

AN IRISH TORY LANDLORD.

SIR,--That political prisoners should not be regarded precisely in the same light as common criminals, public opinion, by a very generally accepted consent, readily admits. Yet Mr. W. O'BRIEN can hardly expect to find residence in a Government gaol in all respects as comfortable as that supplied to him in his own chambers. Still he may probably reasonably expect no harsh, certainly no vindictive treatment, at the hands of the Authorities, but merely that constraint and subjection to ordinary discipline which his detention necessarily involves. As, after the issue of the warrant for his arrest, he was allowed virtually to choose his own time for its service, ride on an open car with a Mayor, preceded by a brass band, playing a solemn march, take up his residence at an hotel, and subsequently address a crowd from the balcony, the Executive cannot be said to have been very hard on him, at least in their preliminary treatment, and probably they will follow it up somewhat in the same lines, and, without making his incarceration a farce, allow it to be softened with such relaxations that, while not incompatible with the surrender of his liberty, may yet be found consistent with a due regard to the requirements of his health, and the circumstances which have led to his rather injudiciously placing it in jeopardy. Such, at least, Sir, is the view of the situation taken by

Your devoted and constant Correspondent,

COMMON SENSE.

* * * * *

Illustration: SEA-SIDE WEATHER STUDIES. "THE SEVENTH WAVE."

* * * * *

WHAT WAS IT?

I had been reading a lot of "Letters to the _Times_." That may account for any little confusion in the details of the subsequent events.

My interlocutor was tall and thin, and looming up lanky against a dusky sky, reminded me equally of an attenuated M.P., a phantom telegraph-pole, and PETER SCHLEMIL, the Shadowless Man.

"TYNDALL is quite right," murmured he.

"Glad to hear it," said I, earnestly. "I had been thinking lately that the distinguished _savant_ was going decidedly wrong."

"Ah! he understands _me!_" sighed the Spectre.

It was more than _I_ did; and I said so.

"Who and what are you, anyhow?" I inquired.

The lines of Long-thin-and-hungry seemed to shift and reshape.

"Ah!" came his voice, the same yet not the same, "elevation does not always give coolness, and one may be torrid and tempestuous even among the Alps."

Somehow this statement, though a truism, did not seem to fit on to previous remarks.

"I was once said to be 'Up in a balloon,'" continued Proteus (now looking rather like the Ancient Mariner,) "long and lean and brown, but letters written to the _Times_ even from the utmost height lately attained by the French Aeronauts--to say nothing of the top of the tallest Lightning Conductor--would, I fear, be hot and ill-balanced. Look at Mr. H. O. ARNOLD-FOSTER!"

"Perhaps--in a sense--we _are_ Lightning Conductors, you know," pursued my companion.

"As how?" I asked vaguely.

"Well we attract, and carry off harmlessly--it doesn't hurt us you see--the accumulated political electricity, which otherwise might rend and rive the State about which these Angry Amateurs are so passionately anxious."

I felt more mystified than ever.

"TYNDALL, GRIMTHORPE, and SYMONS, F.R.S., are entirely right," continued old Length-without-breadth; "A Lightning Conductor which does not conduct lightning, like a Leader who cannot lead, or a Follower who will not follow, is worse than a nullity, it is a nuisance and a danger."

"Quite so," I rejoined, grasping eagerly at something which seemed definite and comparatively relevant.

"Lightning Conductors are, in their way, as essential as Law and Order. But as TYNDALL says, in one case, and as I should say in the latter, all depends upon quality, efficiency, accurate adaptation to ends. Would you say, Oh! never mind about their quality or fitness, the first duty of the Executive is to maintain its Lightning Conductors?"

I replied that it really had not occurred to me to make any such statement, but I dared say I should.

"The _Times_ said of the 'Report of the Lightning Rod Conference,' 'The book is one of the highest practical value, and all who are responsible for the preservation of public buildings should endeavour to render themselves familiar with the contents.' How true! That's my find old temperate 'Thunderer.'"

"Who are you who are so down upon TYNDALL?" I asked.

"_I_ down on the learned Professor?" retorted my companion, shifting, dislimning, and elongating singularly. "On the contrary, I am grateful to him for being 'down upon' the incompetent architects and careless surveyors who would make of me a pitiful sham. Only" (here another phantasmagorical shift) "when he angrily declares a certain prominent political personage, who shall be nameless, to be also 'a pitiful sham,' why, then I think, like so many other and unscientific 'writers to the papers,' he needs the Conductor of cool Common Sense to divert, carry off, and disperse his too furious fulminations."

"Then _you_ are only a Lightning Conductor, after all?" I queried, with some sense of being disappointed, not to say "sold."

"_Only!_" retorted my spectral and shifting visitant, again shifting spectrally. "Why, I'm thinking of writing, for the _Nineteenth Century_, an article on 'Political Lightning Conductors,' which, I rather flatter myself, will comprehend everything, convince everybody, and conciliate even Professor TYNDALL. If you like I will read, from the advance-sheets, a few passages which----"

But here I roused myself to determined resistance, and--awoke.

* * * * *

On the Wing.

In getting fair hold of the Coburg, Prince FERDINAND, Bulgaria palpably thought she'd a "bird in hand," But the Prince and the Bulgars, when put to the push, Will probably wish the "bird" back in the bush.

* * * * *

Illustration: "OVERLOOKED!"

FIELD-MARSHAL PUNCH (_to H.R.H._). "REALLY, YOUR ROYAL HIGHNESS, IN THE PRESENT STATE OF OUR DEFENCES, _IS_ SIR EDWARD HAMLEY QUITE THE SORT OF MAN TO BE _SHELVED?_"

[Sir EDWARD HAMLEY served in the Eastern Campaign of 1854-55, including the affairs of Bulganac and McKenzie's Farm, the Battles of the Alma (horse shot), Balaklava, and Inkerman (horse killed), the Siege and Fall of Sebastopol, and repulse of the Sortie on the 26th October, 1854 (mentioned in Despatches, Medal with four clasps, Brevets of Major and Lt.-Colonel, Knight of the Legion of Honor, Sardinian and Turkish Medals, and 2nd Class of the Medjidie and C.B.). Sir _Edward Hamley_ is the Author of _The Operations of War_, a work that may confidently be characterised as one of the most valuable modern Military books extant--"There exists nothing to compare with it in the English language for enlightened, scientific, and sober teaching in the general art of war"--_vide_ the _Times_ of 1st November, 1869. Served in the Egyptian War of 1882, in command of the 2nd Division, and was present at the Battle of Tel-el-Kebir, where he led the Division (received the thanks of both Houses of Parliament, twice mentioned in Despatches, K.C.B., Medal with clasp, 2nd Class of the Osmanieh, and Khedive's Star).--_Hart's Army List, July_ 1, 1887.]

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S MANUAL FOR YOUNG RECITERS.

The young Reciter is seldom happy in his delivery of blank verse. To which the unsympathetic may retort, that he does not deserve to be. _Mr. Punch_, however, recommends his pupils to treat such sneers with the contempt they merit, and to study the little dramatic exercise which has just been thrown off by a Blank Verse Bard who is kept on the premises. It can be announced on programmes as

VENGEANCE FOREGONE!

(_You should have an ordinary wooden elbow-chair and a print wrapper within easy reach. Come on crouching, with an air of tigerish anticipation._)

'Tis he! Can I mistake the clustered curls Upon his hated hyacinthine head? Have they not wiled from me the fickle heart Of perjured BANDOLINA! There, he stands Before my window, where a winsome form, Rotating slow with measured self-display, Has caught his errant eye. Now, demi-siren,

[_Hands extended in passionate invocation._

Make languorous those lustrous crystal orbs! Wreathe, waxen arms, and lure him in, to me! So--once again!--he falters--he is Mine!

[_Savage exultation, with eyebrows._

Let me be calm.

(_Self-restraint, indicated by violent heaving of shirt-front._)

Good morning, Sir, to you. I pray you--

(_With a forced sickly smile_)

--step within, and seat yourself. I will attend you in a moment.

(_Hold open imaginary door; then resume soliloquy in fierce undertone._)

... Trapped! He knows me not.

(_With dark suspicion, which is easily conveyed by half closing eyes and pressing knuckle of bent forefinger against lower lip._)

Unless I be deceived, No hazard freak of hooded Fortune's urn,

[_A nasty line for the "h"-less._

But BANDOLINA'S dainty insolence Decreed this visit ... Ha! my victim calls! I come anon. Sir

(_fawningly, with a side-glance of withering hate at your chair._)

Patience, peevish worm! Are you in such a hurry, then, to writhe?

[_Fierce aside._ (_Here you draw the chair forward, and, placing yourself behind it, speak the following lines with easy fluency, accompanied by such pantomime as may suggest itself to you._)

I crave your pardon for my tardiness,-- Allow me to dispose these lendings--thus:

[_Here you shake out the wrapper._

This band above the elbows--tighter--so. I do assure you, Sir, this is no gag-- 'Tis but a poor contrivance of mine own To guard the mouth against th' encroaching sud. Refreshing, Sir, indeed, this change of weather! But one more knot.... and now

(_here you stride to a position in front of the chair, which you survey with folded arms, and a mocking smile_)

--my feigning's done!

Writhe as you will, I have you at my mercy. BALDWIN MCASSIR, have we met at last?

[_In a terrible voice._

You know me not?--then quail, for I am he By you bereft of BANDOLINA'S love! Fear not that I would stoop to seek your life-- My vengeance shall be sated on your hair, And that is doomed to perish past recall! Cast up your eyes to yonder whirling wheel:

[_Point to ceiling with air of command._

Then on this brush--'tis set with bristling wires (Some frivoller termed it my _Cheveux de Frizz_), Which, with revolving teeth, shall shortly rake Those curls by BANDOLINA oft caressed,

[_With a cold sneer._

You like the prospect? I have fluids here-- "Elixirs to evolve the latent hair," With others, christened (in some franker mood) "Depilatory Agents,"--scarce less potent: Upon your helpless head I'll pour them _all_!

(_Arm raised--savage and threatening aspect._)

Nay, smile not thus defiance through your gag-- I swear to lay that haughty crest so low, That never shall it soar in pride again! Enough of words--to action!... Still that smile-- So bitter, yet so calm--it maddens me, I'll stay my hand no longer!--

(_violent plunge with right arm--after which you recoil and seem to gaze aghast at some object you are holding_)

--juggling fiend! Was _this_ the secret of your dauntless port? And could my practised eye be so deceived?

(_In a tone of lofty and dignified resignation._)

Yet, seeing I am thus forestalled by Fate, I do renounce my purpose--since I must: Take back your wig, MCASSIR, go in peace.

[_Bitter scorn._

Stay--while, in token that my heart is changed, I coax it into comeliness anew. Permit me to unloose you--you are free, And owe me but a trifle--eighteenpence,

[_Mournfully._

Pay at the counter as you pass without.

(_Here you are supposed to watch your rival's exit with a gloomy scowl._)

Thus ends my vengeance as some idle dream, Yet no--'tis but deferred, with interest!

(_You conclude with a bitter apostrophe to your intended victim._)

Back to your BANDOLINA, plumaged daw! Be bald, but resolute, in your disguise, Till haply on her honeymoon she learns How you have drawn her with that single hair, And I may be avenged! Till then, adieu!

(_Stalk gloomily off, and allow somebody else to remove the chair._)

* * * * *

ON THE STUMP, IN TWO SENSES.--So the Parliamentary Session _and_ the Cricket Season are over at last, and contemporaneously. The latter has been productive of long scores and high averages, the former of little but long speeches and low language. And now _two_ teams of British Cricketers are outward bound by the _Iberia_, for a holiday campaign in Australia. Nobody knows exactly how many teams of slogging politicians are also going for _their_ holiday campaign--"on the stump," all over the Kingdom. _Mr. Punch_ wishes the two lots of willow-wielders, led respectively by Mr. VERNON and ARTHUR SHREWSBURY, a far merrier time and much better "scores" than he fears will fall to the lot of the peripatetic Parliamentarians.

* * * * *

THE HOME RULE CURE.--Mrs. M. understands that the only remedy possible for Irish complaints is Antimony.

* * * * *

GREAT NEWS FOR THE IMPECUNIOUS.

I have just received intelligence of so astounding a character and fraught with such glorious results to the great majority of mankind, that, although I may be said to have partly promised to keep the wondrous secret to myself until after I had turned the information to my own enormous advantage, I do not hesitate to reveal to a delighted universe, information which, if true, will so revolutionise the whole constitution of society, that every individual member of the almost innumerable class of the indebted, will feel at once enfranchised from the demon that now pursues him with his insatiable demand for more, and his poor oppressed soul will, as of old, sing with joy. What then is this glorious discovery that is thus wondrously to relieve the gentlemen of society from the base bondage of debt? I am naturally forbidden to reveal all its minute details, but a general outline I feel justified in laying before the world.

My informant, then, who will be one of the very first to take advantage of the discovery directly it has reached a practical stage, assures me that in an island somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, named I rather think Ungyway, a discovery has been made of a Gold Mine of so extraordinary a character that the precious metal lies in it in huge seams like those of a copper or lead mine.

Now comes the financial part of this great discovery. My friend has calculated that the money, owing by the various respectable classes of society to whom I have already alluded, and the great National Debt, could all be paid off for, say, a sum of 2000 millions. This somewhat considerable amount could be raised from the Ungyway Gold Mine at a cost of two millions of money only, and leave a large profit. The quantity of gold to be so raised would be a mere trifle of 20,000 tons, which, at the fixed price of L3 17_s._ 10_d._ per ounce, at which price the Bank of England is compelled to purchase any quantity offered to it, would be amply sufficient for all the glorious purposes to which I have referred. The members of the class above alluded to, would be permitted to purchase the quantity required by them to free them from their cruel liabilities, at the cost price of the gold, so that a debt of L1,000 could be extinguished by, say, an expenditure of twenty shillings! and the crushing National Debt by an immediate payment of about L750,000! Away fly at once the iniquitous Income-Tax, and the duties on tea and coffee, and wine and beer, and figs, and almonds and raisins!

No wonder that both France and Germany have been sending out expeditions to discover this Fortunate Island, but all in vain; and long before these lines meet the gaze of my astonished readers, the flag that has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze will be fluttering bravely on the topmost towers of Ungyway. I need scarcely add that we shall in future pay for all our imports in gold, and send away our superabundant pauper population, native and foreign, each with about one hundred golden sovereigns in his capacious pockets, the cost price of which being about two shillings.

Of course the one thing to do before the great scheme is finally settled by Messrs. ROTHSCHILD and BARING, will be to get largely into debt at the present price of gold, and pay it off at the price of the future, and so, as ROBINSON says, spoil the Israelites; and so great is his faith in the success of the scheme, that he actually offers to join me in the transaction, and to obtain the money on our joint security. I am to give him my final answer on Saturday.

JOSEPH GREENHORN.

* * * * *

THE BOY AND THE BEAR.

_A Ballad of Bulgaria._

It was the little Bulgar boy, and oh! it was the Bear, Whose affectionate relations were remarkable as rare; For the Bulgar boy of Bruin was the glory and the joy, And if anyone loved Bruin, 'twas that little Bulgar boy. It was very very touching, for your Bear, however good, Has seldom any liking for your boy--except as food; And your boy--or man--from feelings that humanity _may_ blame, Has commonly no yearning for your Bear--unless as game. But this Bear--on his own showing--was a Bear of simple worth, He was not a western "Grizzly," but a Bruin from the North, Which we know is "true and tender," or at least so poets swear, And these Northern traits--who doubts it?--are conspicuous in the Bear.

Had he not that boy befriended in the kindest sort of style, In a fashion full of valour, as 'twas destitute of guile, When a Bubblyjock gigantic from the Bosphorus who hailed, Had assaulted that small Bulgar boy, and--thanks to Bruin--failed? And all that Bear expected in return for what he'd done, (And who of such a sentiment will venture to make fun?) Was the gratitude, and confidence, and love, and--well subjection, Of the boy whom he had taken 'neath his paws--I mean protection.

But alas for human nature, which is radically bad! (And conservatively sinful) this same little Bulgar lad, When he found himself in safety from that Stamboul Bubblyjock, Took and acted in a manner that humanity must shock, For says he, "Oh, thank you, Bruin dear,--and now I'll go and play, And I'll just select the game myself, and work it my own way. You were quite disinterested, for you said so your own self, And I'm sure you don't want power, and of course you can't seek pelf, At your little friend's expense, Bear. No, I thank you very much, You have made a free boy of me--and I mean to act as such."

So he ups and makes selection, this ungratefullest of boys, Of his soldiers, and his swords and guns, and crowns, and other toys; And when Bruin put his paw down in expostulation vain, The Bulgar boy suggested he should--take it up again.

You may easily imagine gentle Bruin's sore disgust, At this sad reciprocation of his fondness and his trust. Says he, "This little rascal is just rushing on his ruin, For his only place of safety is the guardian arms of Bruin." And sundry other animals, and birds, and things, agreed with him, And cried, "The boy is mad, Bear; we must preach to him, and plead with him. Ay, even if 'tis needful, though against our natures mild, We must--well, we mustn't spare the rod, and spoil the--Bulgar--child." There were several Eagles thought this way; the Lion didn't quite, But he had a sort of feeling that this fight was not _his_ fight; And the Bubblyjock at Stamboul was found acting with the Bear, From rather mingled motives, which that fowl did not declare.