Chapter 2

2 P.M.--Have rejoined the Oniononi, coming hither by ricochet on a spent shell. The people are entirely with them, and cheer at every fresh evidence of destruction. Found a well-known shopkeeper in ecstasies over the ruins of his establishment. He said that, "Although the revolution might be bad for trade, it would do good, as things wanted waking up." A slaughter of police and railway officials, which has just been carried out with infinite spirit, seems to be immensely popular. If you don't get this, make immediate complaint. Don't accept, as an excuse, that the wires have been cut, and the office razed to the ground. They can get it through, if they like.

4 P.M.--Just heard a report that I myself have been killed and buried. As I can get no corroboration of this statement, I publish it under reservation. I confine myself to saying that it may be true, although I have my doubts upon the subject.

6 P.M.--It seems (as I imagined) that the report of my death and funeral is a canard. This shows how necessary it is to test the truth of every item of information before hurrying off to the Telegraph Office. Efforts are now being made to bring about a reconciliation between the contending parties.

8 P.M.--The revolution is over. When both sides had exhausted their ammunition, peace naturally became a necessity. The contending parties are now dining together, _al fresco_, as the town is in ruins. Nothing more to add save, All's well that ends well!

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.

WORKMEN'S.

_"Merry Christmas to you, Sir, and many on 'em!" i.e.,_ "Have you got that half-crown handy?"

IN THE SMOKING-ROOM.

_"Quite so; but then, you see, that's not my point;" i.e.,_ "It _was_, ten minutes ago."

_"Yes, but allow me one moment;" i.e.,_ "Kindly give me your close attention for twenty-five minutes."

SOCIAL.

_"Not your fault, indeed! Mine for having so long a train;" i.e.,_ "Awkward toad!"

_"Where did you get that lovely dress, dear?" i.e.,_ "That I may avoid that dress-maker."

THEATRICAL.

_"Whose talents have been seen to better advantage:" i.e.,_ "A cruel bad actor--but can't say so."

_"When the nervousness of a first night has been got over;" i.e.,_ "Never saw a worse play--but it may catch on."

_"The Author's modesty prevented him from responding to loud calls;" i.e.,_ "Timid youth, probably. Foresaw brickbats."

* * * * *

"BRAVO, TORO!"--M. CONSTANS will not allow Bull-fighting in Paris, even for "the benefit of the Martinique sufferers." Quite right! But if he would only discourage "Bull-fighting" in Egypt--the sort of "Bull-fighting" desired by Chauvinist M. DELONCLE--he would do good service to the land of the Pyramids, to the poor fellah, and to civilisation.

* * * * *

NOTE FROM BRIGHTON.--The exterior of the recently-opened Hôtel Métropole, is so effective, that the Architect, Mr. WATERHOUSE, R.A., is likely to receive many commissions for the erection of similar hostelries at our principal marine resorts. He will take out letters patent for change of name, and be known henceforward as Mr. SEA-WATERHOUSE, R.A. By the way, the Directors of the Gordon Hotels Co. wish it to be generally known that they have not started a juvenile hotel for half-price children, under the name of the Gordon Boys' Hotel.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Who remembers a certain story called, if I remember aright, _The Wheelbarrow of Bordeaux_, that appeared in a Christmas Number of the _Illustrated London News_ some years ago? If no one else does, I do, says the Baron; and that sensational story was a sensational sell, wherein the agony was piled up to the "n'th," and just as the secret was about to be disclosed, the only person who knew it, and was on the point of revealing it, died. This is the sort of thing that Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING has just done in this month's _Lippincott's Magazine_. It is told in a plain, rough and ready, blunt style, but so blunt that there's no point in it. And the idea,--that is if the idea be that the likeness of the assassin remains on the retina of the victim's eye, and can be reproduced by photography,--is not a novelty. Perhaps this story in _Lippincott_ comes out of one of Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING'S pigeon-holes, and was just chucked in haphazard, because Editorial _Lippincott_ wanted something with the name of the KIPLING, "bright and merry," to it. It's not very "bright," and it certainly isn't "merry."

_Black's Guide to Kent_ for 1890, useful in many respects, but not quite up to date. The Baron cannot find any information about the splendid Golf Grounds, nor the Golf Club at Sandwich; it speaks of Sir MOSES MONTEFIORE'S place on the East Cliff of Ramsgate as if that benevolent centenarian were still alive; and it retains an old-fashioned description of Ramsgate as "The favorite resort of superior London tradesmen"--"which," says the Baron, "is, to my certain knowledge, very far from being the case." It talks of the "humours of the sands," and alludes to what is merely the cheap-trippers' season, as if this could possibly be the best time for Ramsgate. The _Guide_ knows nothing, or at least says nothing, of the Winter attractions; of the excellent pack of harriers; of the delightful climate from mid-September to January; of the southern aspect; of the pure air; of the many excursions to Ash, Deal, Sandwich, Ickham, and so forth; nor can the Baron discover any mention of the Granville Hotel, nor of the Albion Club, nor of the sport for fishers and shooters; nor of the Riviera-like mornings in November and in the early Spring, which are the real attractions of Ramsgate, and make it one of the finest health-resorts in Winter for all "who love life, and would see good days." "It reminds me," says the Baron, puffing off his smoke indignantly, "of Mr. IRVING and a certain youthful critic, who, in his presence at supper, had been running down _Macbeth_, finding fault with the Lyceum production of it, and ridiculing SHAKSPEARE for having written it. When he had quite finished HENRY IRVING, 'laying low' in his chair at the table, adjusted his pince-nez, and, looking straight at the clever young gentleman, asked, in the mildest possible tone, 'My dear Sir, have you ever _read Macbeth?_' So," resumes the Baron, "I am inclined to ask Mr. BLACK'S young man, 'Do you _know_ Ramsgate?' And of course I mean the Ramsgate of 1890."

From the specimens of _London City_ that have been sent for inspection by Messrs. FIELD & TUER, of the Leadenhall Press, who are bringing it out, the Baron augurs a grand result, artistically and financially. It is to be published at forty-two shillings, but subscribers will get it for a guinea, so intending possessors had evidently better become subscribers. The history of the Great City is to be told by Mr. W.J. LOFTIE, so that it starts with an elevated tone and the loftiest principles, and the illustrations will be by Mr. WM. LUKER, a talented draughtsman who, as a Luker-on has seen most of the games in the City. In consequence of some piratical publisher having attempted to bring out a work under the same title, intended to deceive even the elect, Messrs. FIELD & TUER have secured the copyright of the title _London City_, by the ingenious device of publishing, for one farthing each, five hundred copies of a miniature pamphlet bearing this title, and containing the explanation. The value of these eccentric farthing pamphlets may one day be thousands of pounds. _Mem_.--Twopence would be well invested in purchasing four of them.

_Salads and Sandwiches_ is an attractive title, specially at this season. The arrangement of the book is, like the salad, a little mixed. When, however, the knowing Baron finds that abomination known as salad dressing, or "salad mixing," which is sold at the grocer's, recommended by a writer who professes to teach salad-making, then he closes the book, and reads no more that day. This author, who is in his salad days, might bring out a book entitled _How to Suck Eggs; or, Letters to my Grandmother_. It is a suggestion worth considering, says

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

TO PYRRHA ON THE THAMES.

O Pyrrha! say what youth in "blazer" drest, Woos you on pleasant Thames these summer eves; For whom do you put on that dainty vest, That sky-blue ribbon and those _gigot_ sleeves.

"_Simplex munditiis_," as HORACE wrote, And yet, poor lad, he'll find that he is rash; To-morrow you'll adorn some other boat, And smile as kindly on another "mash."

As for myself--I'm old, and look askance At flannels and flirtation; not for me Youth's idiotic rapture at a glance From maiden eyes: although it comes from thee.

* * * * *

IN THE KNOW.

_(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)_

I am a modest man, as well as an honest one. Censure cannot move me by one hair's breadth from the narrow path of rectitude; praise cannot unduly puff me up. Had I been other than I am, this last week would have gone fatally near to ruining that timid and shrinking diffidence which (I say it without egotism) marks me off from the poisonous, pestilential, hydrocephalous, putty-faced, suet-brained reptiles who disgrace the profession to which I belong. All I wish now to do is to point out that _I am the only prophet_ who indicated, without any beating about the bush, that _Marvel_ would win the Stewards' Cup at Goodwood. My admirers have recognised the fact, and my private residence has been choked by an avalanche of congratulatory despatches, including two or three from some of the highest in the land. H.S.H., the Grand Duke of PFEIFENTOPF says:--"You have me with your writings much refreshed. I have the whole revenues of the Grand Duchy against one thousand _flaschen_ of lager bier gebetted, and I have won him on your noble advice on _Marvel_. I make you Commander of the Honigthau Order." I merely cite this to show that my appreciators are not to one country confined--I mean, confined to one country.

What did I say last week, in speaking of the Stewards' Cup horses? By the well-known grammatical figure known as the _hysteroproteron,_ I mentioned _Marvel_ last, intending, of course, as even a buffalo-headed Bedlamite might have seen, that he should be first. And he was first. But to make assurance doubly sure, and to bring prophecy down to the intellectual level of a bat, I added, in speaking of the winner, that he "would certainly be a _Marvel_." I say no more. As the great Cardinal once observed to his chief of police, "_Je te verrai soufflé d'abord,"_ so I reply to those who wish me to reveal the secret of my success. Mr. J. knows it not, and no single member of the imbecile, anserous, asinine, cow-hocked, spavin-brained, venomous, hugger-mugger purveyors of puddling balderdash who follow him has the least conception of my glorious system. But I am willing to teach, though I have nothing to learn. For six halfpenny stamps those who desire to _know_, shall receive my pamphlet on "Book-making." Every applicant must send his photograph with his application, not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith.

* * * * *

"SUR LE TAPIS."--It was a carpet that ostensibly parted an eminent firm of composer, author, and theatrical manager. W.S.G. didn't want D'OYLY CARPET--no, beg pardon, should have written D'OYLY CARTE to have _carte blanche_. [Pretty name this. Is there a BLANCHE CARTE? If not, "make it so."]--to do whatever he liked whenever he liked with the decorating and upholstering of the theatre. And recently another carpet, not in connection with the above firm, created a difficulty. What's a thousand-guinea carpet to a man who likes this sort of thing? Nothing. Yet as _amici curiae_, we would have thought that that Tottenham Road carpet might have been kept out of Court. Wasn't that a Blunder, MAPLE?

* * * * *

FROM NILE TO NEVA.

["And the Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with rigour. And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage."--_Exodus._

"The Russian Government, by the new edicts legalises persecution, and openly declares war against the Jews of the Empire."--_Times._]

"BEWARE!" 'Tis a voice from the shades, from the dark of three thousand long years, But it falls like the red blade of RA, and should echo in Tyranny's ears With the terror of overhead thunder; from Nile to the Neva it thrills, And it speaks of the judgment of wrong, of the doom of imperious wills. When PENTAOUR sang of the PHARAOH, alone by Orontes, at bay, By the chariots compassed about of the foe who were fierce for the fray, He sang of the dauntless oppressor, of RAMESES, conquering king; But were there such voice by the Neva to-day, of what now should he sing? Of tyranny born out of time, of oppression belated and vain? Put up the old weapon, O despot, slack hand from the scourge and the chain; For the days of the PHARAOHS are done, and the laureates of tyranny mute, And the whistle of falchion and flail are not set to the chords of the lute. True, the Hebrew, who bowed to the lash of the Pyramid-builders, bows still, For a time, to the knout of the TSAR, to the Muscovite's merciless will; But four millions of Israel's children are not to be crushed in the path Of a TSAR, like the Hittites of old, when great RAMESES flamed in his wrath Alone through their numberless hosts. No, the days of the Titans of Wrong Are past, for the Truth is a torch, and the voice of the peoples is strong. Even PENTAOUR, the poet of Might, spake in pity that rings down the years Of the life of "the peasant that tills" of his terrible toil and his tears; Of the rats and the locusts that ravaged, and, worse, the tax-gathering horde Who tithed all his pitiful tilth with the aid of the stick and the cord; And the splendour of RAMESES pales in the text of the old Coptic Muse, And--one hears the mad rush of the wheels that the fierce Red Sea billow pursues!

O Muscovite, blind in your wrath, with your heel on the Israelite's neck, And your hand on that baleful old blade, Persecution, 'twere wisdom to reck The PHARAOH'S calm warning. Beware! Lo, the Pyramids pierce the grey gloom Of a desert that is but a waste, by a river that is but a tomb, Yet the Hebrew abides and is strong. AMENEMAN is gone to the ghosts, He the prince of the Coptic police who so harried the Israelite hosts When their lives with hard-bondage were bitter. And now bitter bondage you'd try. Proscription, and exile, and stern deprivation. Beware, Sire! Put by That blade in its blood-rusted scabbard. The PHARAOHS, the CAESARS have found That it wounds him who wields it; and you, though your victim there, prone on the ground, Look helpless and hopeless, you also shall find Persecution a bane Which shall lead to a Red Sea of blood to o'erwhelm selfish Tyranny's train. "Beware!" Tis the shade of MENEPTHA that whispers the warning from far. Concerning _that_ sword there's a lesson the PHARAOH may teach to the TSAR! * * * * *

"REWARDS FOR GALLANTRY."--Among the numerous rewards mentioned in the _Times_ of last Thursday, the magnificent gold watch, with monogram in diamonds, presented by the Royal Italian Opera Company to AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS at the close of the present exceptionally successful season, was not mentioned. Most appropriate present from the persons up to tune to one who is always up to time. The umble individual who writes this paragraph only wishes some company--Italian, French, no matter which--would present _him_ with a golden and diamonded watch. "O my prophetic soul! My Uncle!!"

* * * * *

THE PRICE OF IT.

GLADSTONE'S latest Benedicite Is bestowed on "free publicity." 'Tis the thing that we all strive at, Praise in speech, and hate--in private! Where are pride, reserve, simplicity? Fled for ever--from Publicity!

* * * * *

"MORE LIGHT!"--The Berners Hotel Co., with Mr. GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA as Chairman, should at once be advertised as "The G.A.S.-Berners Hotel Co.," and, of course, no electric lighting would be used. Mr. SIMS REEVES is also a Director of this Hotel Company. So it starts with a tenner.

* * * * *

Socialistic Military Novel. By JAMES ODD SUMMER. _One Iron Soldier, and the Led Captain._

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.

No. XII.--CONRAD; OR, THE THUMBSUCKER.

_(Adapted freely from a well-known Poem in the "Struwwelpeter.")_

CHARACTERS.

_Conrad (aged 6). Conrad's Mother (47). The Scissorman (age immaterial)._

SCENE--_An Apartment in the house of_ CONRAD'S _Mother, window in centre at back, opening upon a quiet thoroughfare. It is dusk, and the room is lighted only by the reflected gleam from the street lamps._ CONRAD _discovered half-hidden by left window-curtain._

_Conrad (watching street)._ Still there! For full an hour he has not budged beyond the circle of yon lamp-post's rays! The gaslight falls upon his crimson hose, and makes a steely glitter at his thigh, while from the shadow peers a hatchet-face and fixes sinister malignant eyes--on whom? _(Shuddering.)_ I dare not trust myself to guess! And yet--ah, no--it cannot be myself! I am so young--one is still young at six!--What man can say that I have injured him? Since, in my Mother's absence all the day engaged upon Municipal affairs, I peacefully beguile the weary hours by suction of consolatory thumbs. _(Here he inserts his thumb in his mouth, but almost instantly removes it with a start.)_ Again I meet those eyes! I'll look no more--but draw the blind and shut my terror out. _(Draws blind and lights candle; Stage lightens.)_ Heigho, I wish my Mother were at home! _(Listening.)_ At last. I hear her latchkey in the door!

_Enter_ CONRAD'S Mother, _a lady of strong-minded appearance, rationally attired. She carries a large reticule full of documents._

_Conrad's M._ Would, CONRAD, that you were of riper years, so you might share your Mother's joy to-day, the day that crowns her long and arduous toil as one of London's County Councillors!

_Conrad._ Nay, speak; for though my mind be immature, one topic still can charm my infant ear, that ever craves the oft-repeated tale. I love to hear of that august Assembly _(his Mother lifts her bonnet solemnly)_ in which my Mother's honoured voice is raised!

_C's. M. (gratified)._ Learn, CONRAD, then, that, after many months of patient "lobbying" (you've heard the term?) the measure by my foresight introduced has triumphed by a bare majority!

_Con._ My bosom thrills with dutiful delight--although I yet for information wait as to the scope and purpose of the statute.

_C's. M._ You show an interest so intelligent that well deserves it should be satisfied. Be seated, CONRAD, at your Mother's knee, and you shall hear the full particulars. You know how zealously I advocate the sacred cause of Nursery Reform? How through my efforts every infant's toys are carefully inspected once a month--?

_Con. (wearily)._ Nay, Mother, you forget--I _have_ no toys.

_C's. M._ Which brings you under the exemption clause. But--to resume; how Nursery Songs and Tales must now be duly licensed by our Censor, and any deviation from the text forbidden under heavy penalties? All that you know. Well; with concern of late, I have remarked among our infancy the rapid increase of a baneful habit on which I scarce can bring my tongue to dwell. _(The Stage darker; blind at back illuminated.)_ Oh, CONRAD, there are children--think of it!--so lost to every sense of decency that, in mere wantonness or brainless sloth, they obstinately suck forbidden thumbs! (CONRAD _starts with irrepressible emotion.)_ Forgive me if I shock your innocence! _(Sadly.)_ Such things exist--but soon shall cease to be, thanks to the measure we have passed to-day!

_Con. (with growing uneasiness)._ But how can statutes check such practices?

_C's M. (patting his head)._ Right shrewdly questioned, boy! I come to that. Some timid sentimentalists advised compulsory restraint in woollen gloves, or the deterrent aid of bitter aloes. _I_ saw the evil had too deep a seat to yield to such half-hearted remedies. No; we must cut, ere we could hope to cure! Nay, interrupt me not; my Bill appoints a new official, by the style and title of "London County Council Scissorman," for the detection of young "suck-a-thumbs."

_[Here the shadow of a huge hand brandishing a gigantic pair of shears appears upon the blind.]_

_Con. (hiding his face in his Mother's lap)._ Ah, Mother, see!... the scissors!... On the blind!

_C's. M._ Why, how you tremble! You've no cause to fear. The shadow of his grim insignia should have no terror--save for thumb-suckers.

_Con._ And what for _them_?

_C's. M. (complacently)._ A doom devised by me--the confiscation of the culprit thumbs. Thus shall our statute cure while it corrects, for those who have no thumbs can err no more.

_[The Shadow slowly passes on the blind_, CONRAD _appearing relieved at its departure. Loud knocking without. Both start to their feet._

_C's M._ Who knocks so loud at such an hour as this?

_A Voice._ Open, I charge ye. In the Council's name!

_C's M._ 'Tis the Official Red-legged Scissorman, who doubtless calls to thank me for the post.

_Con. (with a gloomy determination)._ More like his business, Madam, is with--Me!

_C's. M. (suddenly enlightened)._ A Suck-a-thumb?... _you_, CONRAD?

_C. (desperately)._ Ay,--from birth!

_[Profound silence, as Mother and Son face one another. The knocking is renewed._

_C's. M._ Oh, this is horrible--it must not be! I'll shoot the bolt and barricade the door.

[CONRAD _places himself before it, and addresses his Mother in a tone of incisive irony._

_Con._ Why, where is all the zeal you showed of late? is't thus that you the Roman Matron play? Trick not a statute of your own devising. Come, your official's waiting--let him in! (C's. M. _shrinks back appalled._) So? you refuse!--(_throwing open door_)--then--enter, Scissorman!

_[Enter the_ Scissorman, _masked and in red tights, with his hand upon the hilt of his shears._

_The S. (in a passionless tone)._ Though sorry to create unpleasantness, I claim the thumbs of this young gentleman, which my own eyes have marked between his lips.

_C's. M. (frantically)._ Thou minion of a meddling tyranny, go exercise thy loathsome trade elsewhere!

_The S. (civilly)._ I've duties here that must be first performed.

_C's. M. (wildly)._ Take my thumbs for his!

_The S._ 'Tis not the law--which is a model of lucidity.

_Con. (calmly)._ Sir, you speak well. My thumbs are forfeited, and they alone must pay the penalty.

_The S. (with approval)._ Right! Step with me into the outer hall, and have the business done without delay.

_C's. M. (throwing herself between them)._ Stay! I'm a Councillor--this law was _mine!_ Hereby I do suspend the clause I drew.

_The S._ You should have drawn it milder.

_Con._ Must I teach a parent laws were meant to be obeyed? [_To_ Sc.] Lead on, Sir. _(To his_ Mother _with cold courtesy.)_ Madam,--may I trouble you?

_[He thrusts her gently aside and passes out with the_ S.; _the door is shut and fastened from without._ C's. M. _rushes to door which she attempts to force without success._