"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.

C's. M. In vain I batter at a senseless door, I'll to the keyhole train my tortured ear. (Listening.) Dead silence!... is it over—or, to come? Hark! was not that the click of meeting shears?... Again! and followed by the sullen thud of thumbs that drop upon linoleum!...

[The door is opened and CONRAD appears, pale but erect,—N.B. The whole of this scene has been compared to one in "La Tosca"—which, however, it exceeds in horror and intensity.

C's. M. They send him back to me, bereft of both! My CONRAD! What?—repulse a Mother's Arms!

Con. (with chilling composure). Yes, Madam, for between us ever more, a barrier invisible is raised, and should I strive to reach those arms again, two spectral thumbs would press me coldly back—the thumbs I sucked, in blissful ignorance, the thumbs that solaced me in solitude, the thumbs your County Council took from me, and your endearments scarcely will replace! Where, Madam, lay the harm in sucking them? The dog will lick his foot, the cat her claw, his paws sustain the hibernating bear—and you decree no law to punish them! Yet, in your rage for infantine reform, you rushed this most ridiculous enactment—its earliest victim your neglected son!

C's. M. (falling at his feet). Say, CONRAD, you will some day pardon me?

Con. (bitterly, as he regards his maimed hands.) I will,—the day these pollards send forth shoots!

[His Mother turns aside with a heartbroken wail; CONRAD standing apart in gloomy estrangement as the Curtain descends.

"RUNNING HIS EYE OVER THEM."

GRANDOLPH muses:—

MY PITHY JAYNE.

[DR. JAYNE, Bishop of Chester, at a Conference of the Girl's Friendly Society, at Chester, said that until they were prepared to introduce basket-making into London Society as a substitute for quadrilles and waltzes, he was not disposed to accept it as an equivalent for balls and dances among girls of other classes.]

AIR.—"My Pretty Jane."

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

House of Commons, Monday, July 28.—STRATHEDEN and CAMPBELL are amongst the most regular visitors to our lobby from House of Lords. RAVENSWORTH and UMBRELLA run them pretty close, but come in only a good second. Moreover, whilst RAVENSWORTH and UMBRELLA rarely go beyond the lobby, STRATHEDEN and CAMPBELL press forward into Gallery reserved for Peers, and there sweetly go to sleep, "Like Babes in the Wood," says Colonel MALCOLM, turning over leaves of Orders as if he would like to complete the simile by acting the part of the birds. To-night STRATHEDEN and CAMPBELL leave us forlorn. They have business in their own House; been long concerned for interests of State as affected by the MARKISS'S persistence in combining office of Premier with that of Foreign Secretary.

"It would be too much even for us," said STRATHEDEN, in conversation we had before House met; "and," he continued, "though I say it what shouldn't, I don't know any arrangement that would be happier or more complete than if we undertook the job. What do you say, CAMPBELL? Would you be Premier, or would you take the Foreign Seals?"

"The Premier place is yours," said CAMPBELL, gallantly; "at least, it is now. When we first started in life we used to call ourselves CAMPBELL and STRATHEDEN. You'll find it so in the Peerages of earlier date; now it's the other way about, and STRATHEDEN takes the pas."

"That was entirely your doing, CAMPBELL, said STRATHEDEN; so modest, so retiring, so thoughtful! After we'd been known as CAMPBELL and STRATHEDEN for good many years, you came to me and said it was my turn now. I objected; you insisted; and here we are, a power in the State, an object of interest in the Commons, STRATHEDEN and CAMPBELL in the Lords."

"A little awkward, don't you think," I ventured to say, edging in a word, "for you two fellows to take this strong stand against duality?"

"Not at all," said STRATHEDEN and CAMPBELL, both together; "we are authorities on the subject, and we say that the MARKISS cannot in his single person adequately perform the dual duties pertaining to his high offices; therefore we shall go and move our resolution protesting against arrangement."

Pretty to see them marching off. Always walk on tip-toe; ROSEBERY says it is a practice adopted so as not to disturb each other when engaged in thinking out deep problems; two of the best and the happiest old fellows in the world; their only trouble is that on divisions their vote should count as only one. CAMPBELL, in whom hot Cupar blood flows, once proposed to raise question of privilege, but soothed by STRATHEDEN, who has in him a strong strain of the diplomatic character of his grandfather, ABINGER.

Business done.—In the Lords, STRATHEDEN and CAMPBELL raised question of MARKISS as Premier and Foreign Secretary. In Commons, Anglo-German Agreement sanctioned.

Tuesday.—Scotch Members had their innings to-night; played a pretty stiff game till, at twelve o'clock, stumps drawn. All about what used to be called the Compensation Bill. Got a new name now; Compensation Clauses dropped; but JOKIM finds it dreary work dragging the wreck along.

"Seems to me, Tony," he said with a sob in his voice, "that whatever I do is wrong. This Bill has gone through various transmogrifications since; with a light heart, I brought it in as part of Budget scheme. But it's all the same. Hit high or hit low, I can't please 'em. Begin to think if there were any other business open for me, should chuck this up."

"Ever been in the carpet-cleaning line?" said MAPLE-BLUNDELL, in harsh voice, and with curiously soured face. Generally beams through life as if it were all sunshine. Now cloud Seems to have fallen over his expansive person, and he is as gloomy as JOKIM.

"It's all very well for you," he continues, glowering at JOKIM, "to complain of your lot; but till you go into the carpet-cleaning line you never know what vicissitudes mean. One day, alighting from your four-in-hand, and happily able to spare to Tottenham Court Road a few moments from direction of national affairs, you look in at your shop; enter a lady who says she wants a carpet cleaned. 'Very well' you say rubbing your hands, and smiling blandly; 'and what will be the next article.' Nothing more. Only this blooming carpet, out of which, when the job is finished and it is sent home you make a modest five bob. Your keen insight into figures, JOKIM, will convince you that the coin colloquially known as five bob won't go far to enable you to cut a figure in Society, drive four-in-hand, give pic-nics in your park to the Primrose League, and subscribe to the Canton Fund. However, there it is; carpet comes; you send it out in usual way, and what happens? Why it blows itself up, kills two boys, lames a man, and then you discover that you've been entertaining unawares a carpet worth £1000 which you have to pay. Did that ever happen to you at the Treasury?" MAPLE-BLUNDELL fiercely demanded. JOKIM forced to admit that his infinite sorrows had never taken that particular turn.

"Very well, then," snapped MAPLE-BLUNDELL, "don't talk to me about your troubles. As far as I know this is the only carpet in the world valued at £1000; it is certainly the only one that ever went off by spontaneous combustion; and I had this particular carpet in charge, at the very moment when it was ready to combust spontaneously."

"Yes," said JOKIM, softly, as MAPLE-BLUNDELL went off, viciously stamping on the carpet that covers the Library floor, "we all have our troubles, and when I think of MAPLE-BLUNDELL and his combustible carpet I am able the better to bear the woes I have."

Business done.—In Committee on Local Taxation Bill.

Thursday.—"True, TOBY," OLD MORALITY said, in reply to an observation, "I am a little tired, and naturally; things haven't been going so well as they did; but I could get along well enough if it wasn't for SUMMERS. CONEYBEARE'S cantankerous; STORY is strenuous; TANNER tedious; and DILLON denunciatory. But there's something about SUMMERS that is peculiarly aggravating. In the first place, he is, as far as appearances go, such a quiet, amiable, inoffensive young man. Looking at him, one would think that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, much less that Mixed Marriages in Malta should keep him awake at night, and the question of International Arbitration should lower his appetite. Yet you know how it is. He seems to have some leisure on his hands; uses it to formulate conundrums; comes down here, and propounds them to me. Just look at his list for to-night. LINTORN SIMMONDS'S Mission to the POPE; Customs' Duty in Algeria; International Arbitration; Walfish Bay, and Damara Land, together with the view the Cape Colonies may take of the Anglo-German Agreement. That pretty well for one night; but he's gone off now, to look up a fresh batch, which he'll unfold to-morrow. Now is the winter of our discontent, which is chilly enough; but, for my part, I often think that life would be endurable only for its SUMMERS."

Haven't often heard OLD MORALITY speak so bitterly; generally, even at worst time, overflowing with geniality; ready to take kindest view of circumstances, and hope for the best. But SUMMERS, surveying mankind from China to Peru in search of material for fresh conundrum, too much for mildest-mannered man. OLD MORALITY, goaded to verge of madness, jumps up; hotly declines to reply to SUMMERS; begs him to address his questions to Ministers to whose Department they belonged.

Business done.—Local Taxation Bill through Committee.

Friday.—Still in our ashes live our wonted fires. Dwelling just now amid ashes of expiring Session; everything dull and deadly; pounding away at Local Taxation Bill; Scotch Members to the fore, for the fortieth time urging that the £40,000 allotted them in relief of school fees shall be made £90,000. House divides, and also for fortieth time says "No;" expect to go on with next Amendment; when suddenly HARCOURT springs on OLD MORALITY'S back, digs his knuckles into his eyes, bites his ear, and observes that he "has never seen a piece of more unexampled insolence." OLD MORALITY, when he recovers breath, goes and tells the Master—I mean the SPEAKER. SPEAKER says HARCOURT shouldn't use language like that; so HARCOURT subsides, and incident closes as rapidly and suddenly as it opened.

A little later COMPTON goes for RAIKES; hints that he sub-edited for Hansard portions of a speech delivered in House on Post Office affairs. RAIKES says "Noble Lord charged me with having deliberately falsified my speech." COMPTON says he didn't. "Then," said RAIKES, with pleading voice that went to every heart, "I wish the Noble Lord had the manliness to charge me with deliberate falsification." COMPTON refused to oblige; RAIKES really depressed.

"Don't know what we're coming to, TOBY," he said, "when one almost goes on his knees to ask a man to charge him with deliberate falsification, and he won't do it. Thought better of COMPTON; see him in his true light now." Business done.—A good deal.

A SPORTING STYLE.

Our next example of a true sporting style will be constructed on the basis of Nos. 11, 12, and 13 of the Rules. These, it will be remembered, require the writer to refer to "the good old days;" to be haughty and contemptuous, with a parade of rugged honesty; to be vain and offensive, and to set himself up as an infallible judge of every branch of sport and athletics. This particular variety of style is always immensely effective. All the pot-boys of the Metropolis, most of the shady bookmakers, and a considerable proportion of the patrons of sport swear by it, and even the most thoughtful who read it cannot fail to be impressed by its splendour. This style deals in paragraphs. Second Example.—Event to be commented on: A Regatta.

I am led to believe by column upon column of wishy-washy twaddle in the morning papers, that Henley Regatta has actually taken place. The effete parasites of a decayed aristocracy who direct this gathering endeavour year after year to make the world believe that theirs is the only meeting at which honour has the least chance of bursting into flower. I have my own opinions on this point. Really, these tenth transmitters of foolish faces become more and more brazen in their attempts to palm off their miserable two-penny-halfpenny, tin-pot, one-horse Regatta as the combination of all the cardinal virtues.

These gentry presume to dictate to rowing men what shall constitute the status of the Amateur. For my own part (and the world will acknowledge that I have done some rowing in my time) I prefer the straight-forward conduct of any passing rag-and-bone merchant to the tricks of the high and mighty champions of the amateur qualification in whose nostrils the mere name of professional oarsman seems to stink. These pampered denizens of the amateur hothouse would, doubtless, wear a kid-glove before they ventured to shake hands with one who, like myself, despises them and their absurd pretensions.

As for the rowing, it was fantastic. I wasn't there. Indeed, those who know me, would never think so meanly of me as to suppose that I would attend this Regatta pour rire. But I know enough to be sure that the Eights were slow, the Fours deficient in pace, the pairs on the minus side of nothing, and the scullers preposterous. Rowing must be in a bad way when it can boast no better champions (save the mark!) than those who last week aired their incompetence, and impeded the traffic of the people upon the Thames. Time was when an oarsman was an oarsman, but now he is a miserable cross between a Belgravian flunkey and a riverside tout. Which is all I care to say on an unsavoury matter.

NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.