everything is down, something is sure to be up." I think so too. I am now going to Government House. If I don't get this through, make complaint at the Post Office, for it will be their fault not mine.

9 A.M.—Am now at Head Quarters. Not much trouble getting here. Came by a bussi, a local conveyance drawn by two horses, and much used by the humbler classes. On our road one of the steeds and the roof of the bussi were carried away by a shell, but as I was inside this caused me little annoyance, and I got comfortably to my destination with the remainder. Just seen the President, who says laughingly, that "there has been practically nothing but perfect peace and quiet." I doubt whether this can be quite the case, as he was sitting in front of Government House, which was at that very moment undergoing a vigorous bombardment. When I pointed this out to him, he confessed that he had noticed it himself, but did not think much of it. He was in excellent spirits, and told me a funny story about the narrow escape of his mother-in-law. I am now off to see how the other side are progressing. If the Post Office people tell you they can't send my telegrams to you, refuse to believe them.

Narrow Escape of Our Correspondent.

10 A.M.—As I suspected, from the first, there has been a disturbance. I thought it must be so, as I could not otherwise understand why my cabbi should have been blown into the air, while passing through a mined street on the road here. I am now at the Head Quarters of the Oniononi, who seem to be in great strength. They appear to be very pleased that the fleet should have joined them, and account for the action by saying that the sailors, as bad shots, would naturally blaze away at the biggest target—Government House. So far, the disturbances have caused little inconvenience. I date this 10 A.M., but I cannot tell you the exact time, as the clock-tower has just been carried away by a new kind of land torpedo.

12, NOON.—I am now once again at the Government Head Quarters. As I could get no better conveyance, I inflated my canvas carpet-bag with gas, and used it as a balloon. I found it most valuable in crossing the battery which now masks the remains of what was once Government House. The President, after having organised a band of pic-pockettini (desperadoes taken from the gaols), has gone into the provinces, declaring that he has a toothache. By some, this declaration is deemed a subterfuge, by others, a statement savouring of levity. The artillery are now reducing the entire town to atoms, under the personal supervision of the Minister of Finance, who deprecates waste in ammunition, and declares that he is bound to the President by the tie of the battle-field.

Our Correspondent in an Elevated Position.

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