of the Paris mob to pieces in 1795, called in playful approval by
our respectable classes "the whiff of grapeshot," though
Napoleon, to do him justice, took a deeper view of it, and would
fain have had it forgotten. And since the Duke of Argyll was not
a demon, but a man of like passions with ourselves, by no means
rancorous or cruel as men go, who can doubt that all over the
world proletarians of the ducal kidney are now revelling in "the
whiff of dynamite" (the flavor of the joke seems to evaporate a
little, does it not?) because it was aimed at the class they hate
even as our argute duke hated what he called the mob.

In such an atmosphere there can be only one sequel to the Madrid
explosion. All Europe burns to emulate it. Vengeance! More blood!
Tear "the Anarchist beast" to shreds. Drag him to the scaffold.
Imprison him for life. Let all civilized States band together to
drive his like off the face of the earth; and if any State
refuses to join, make war on it. This time the leading London
newspaper, anti-Liberal and therefore anti-Russian in politics,
does not say "Serve you right" to the victims, as it did, in
effect, when Bobrikofl; and De Plehve, and Grand Duke Sergius,
were in the same manner unofficially fulminated into fragments.
No: fulminate our rivals in Asia by all means, ye brave Russian
revolutionaries; but to aim at an English princess-monstrous!
hideous! hound down the wretch to his doom; and observe, please,
that we are a civilized and merciful people, and, however much we
may regret it, must not treat him as Ravaillac and Damiens were
treated. And meanwhile, since we have not yet caught him, let us
soothe our quivering nerves with the bullfight, and comment in a
courtly way on the unfailing tact and good taste of the ladies of
our royal houses, who, though presumably of full normal natural