POLITICS UP TO DATE.
(Specimen Leader from an Irish Paper in a Chronic State of Revolution.)
WEDNESDAY, 9 A.M.—We appear this morning awaiting the future with confidence and hope. So far, we have been able to conduct this journal on patriotic lines. We have denounced the Leader of the Party as the enemy of his country, and have applauded his opponents as the saviours of society. But we cannot conceal from ourselves that the time may arrive when this policy may be reversed. The hour may come—
10 A.M.—It has! We have much pleasure in informing our readers that, after a vigorous fight (honourable to all who took part in it), we have conquered. This paper is in our hands, and henceforward we shall support, to the best of our ability, the Leader of the Party, and denounce the infamous pretensions of his opponents; still, it would be unwise to ignore the possibilities of the future. We may be overpowered by a tyrannical majority. The time may come—
11 A.M.—It has! Hurroo! It was hard fighting to get back; but here we are again, ready to denounce the leader, and support his opponents. For the moment we are victorious, but who shall prophesy what may be looming in the distant ages? The hour may come—
12 NOON.—It has! And now that we have again taken possession, we must say we have never had so elegant a quarrel. The shillelaghs were flinging about all over the place, cracking crowns in all directions, and the scrimmages were just magnificent! It was an elegant row entirely! But now to work. Our noble leader deserves his triumph, and his opponents are nowhere. Still in the moment of victory, it would be foolish to overlook the chances of to-morrow. The hour may come—
1 P.M.—It has! Be jabers, what a contest! But we have just slaughtered them! Oh, it was a fine sight entirely! How the ink-pots flew about! Easy now, let us to business. The shorter we make our remarks the better, as no one can say what will be happening hereafter. The hour may come—
2 P.M.—It has! With a vengeance! We have defeated them! Hurroo, boys! This is not the time for composition! Tread on the tail of my—we mean—our coat! Come on, ye dirty spalpeens! Hurroo!
[Publication suspended until someone can be found—not otherwise engaged—to write and print it, while someone else starts a rival and "suppressed" edition.
