Chapter I: Front Matter

Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 21818-h.htm or 21818-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/1/8/1/21818/21818-h/21818-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/1/8/1/21818/21818-h.zip)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 104

FEBRUARY 11, 1893

THE LAST WOMAN.

(_A contemporary Pendant to "The Last Man."_)

[It is stated that the dreaded Crinoline has actually made its
appearance in one or two quarters.]

All modish shapes must melt in gloom,
Great WORTH himself must die,
Before the Sex again assume
EVE'S sweet simplicity!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
Which made me bow my head and weep
As one aghast, accurst!
Was it a spook before me past?
Of women I beheld the last,
As ADAM saw the first.

Regent Street seemed "No Thoroughfare,"
Bond Street looked weird, inhuman;
The spectres of past fashions were
Around that lonely Woman.
Some were the work of native hands,
Some had arrived from foreign lands,
Nondescript jumbles some!
Pall-Mall had now nor sound nor tread,
Park Lane was silent as the dead,
Belgravia was dumb.

Yet, lighthouse-like, that lone one stood,
Or whisked her skirts around,
Like a wild wind that sweeps the wood,
And strews with leaves the ground.
Singing, "Our hour is come, O Sun
Of Fashion! We'll have no more fun.
Solitude is _too_ slow!
True thou hast worn ten thousand shapes
(In spite of man's sour gibes and japes),
But--now the thing lacks go.

"What though the grumbler Man put forth
His pompous power and skill!
He could not make Woman and WORTH
The vassals of his will;--
Fashion, I mourn thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownéd Queen! To play
To empty box and stall;
To dress--when not another She
Exists to quicken rivalry--
No, it won't pay at all!

"Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the works of men!
Nothing they did that's worth recall,
With sword, or spade, or pen.
Their bumptious bunglings bring not back!
Man always _was_ a noisy quack
Who thought himself a god;
But when he fancied he had scored
Prodigiously, the Sex he bored
Subdued him with a nod.

"Now I am weary. No one tries
The fit of new attire!
Doom, that the joys of Dress denies,
Bids Woman's bliss expire.
But shall _La Mode_ know final death?
Forbid it Woman's latest breath!
Death--who is _male_--shan't boast
The eclipse of Fashion. Such a pall
Shall not like Darkness cover all--
Till _I_ give up the ghost!

"What would most vex and worry _him_,
Dull, modeless Man, whose spark
Long (beside Woman's) burning dim,
Has now gone down in dark?
Ha! He'd kick up the _greatest_ shine
(If he _could_ kick) at--CRINOLINE.
Were he recalled to breath,
I'll have one last man-mocking spree
By _donning hooped skirts_. Victory!
_This_ takes all sting from Death!

"Go, Sun, while Fashion holds me up,
Swollen skirt and skimpy waist
Shall fill--male--sorrow's bitter cup,
And mortify--male--taste!
Go, tell the spheres that sweep through space,
Thou saw'st the last of EVE'S fair race,
In high ecstatic passion;
The darkening universe defy,
To quench her taste for Toggery,
Or shake her faith in Fashion!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

A PLAINT FROM PARNASSUS.

(_By an "Unrecommended" Resident._)

[Mr. GLADSTONE (replying to Mr. JOHNSTON, of Ballykilbeg) announced
that no recommendation had been submitted to Her MAJESTY upon the
subject of the succession to the office of Poet Laureate, and that
there was no immediate intention of submitting one.]

Glorious Apollo! This is wondrous hard!
Fancy JOHN BULL without Official Bard!
His plight is sad as that of the great men
Who lived, unmarked by the Poetic Pen,
Before great AGAMEMNON. Ah, my HORACE,
Britons are a Boeotian, heavy, slow race!
As for the "Statesman" who treats bards so shabbily,
'Twill serve him right if thine "_illacrimabile_"
Applies to him. A Premier, but no Poet?
England, you are dishonoured, and don't know it.
Void of a _Sacer Vates_ to enshrine
In gorgeous trope and long-resounding line,
Thy Victories, and Weddings, Shows and Valour?
Parnassus shakes, the Muses pine in pallor.
When foreign princelings mate our sweet princesses,
When Rads of fleets and armies made sad messes,
And stand in need of verbal calcitration;
When--let's say ASHMEAD-BARTLETT--saves the nation
In the great name of glorious Saint Jingo;
When BULL gives toko or delivers stingo.
To Fuzzy-Wuzzy, or such foolish savages;
When our great guns commit most gallant ravages
Among the huts of some unhappy village,
Where naughty "niggers" have gone in for pillage;
When SOMEONE condescends to be high-born,
Or deigns to die, who now shall toot the horn,
Or twang the lyre, emitting verse divine,
For Fame and--say, about a pound per line?
I must submit. I have not been "submitted,"
But poetless JOHN BULL is to be pitied.
Of course self-praise is no "recommendation,"
(In GLADSTONE'S sense) or else, unhappy nation,
I, even I, could spare you natural worry at,
Your non-possession of a Poet-Laureate!

* * * * *

IN A PICKWICKIAN SENSE.--When "a nate Irishman" (as the song has it) "meets with a friend," he incontinently "for love knocks him down," whether with a "sprig of shillelagh" or a "flower of speech," depends upon circumstances. In either case he "means no harm," or at any rate far less harm than the phlegmatic and matter-of-fact Saxon is apt to fancy. Probably, therefore, an "Irish Phrase Book," giving the real "meaning" of Hibernian rhetorical epithets, would prove a great peacemaker, in Parliament and out. Colonel SAUNDERSON, when he had recovered his temper, and with it his wit, "toned down" the provocative "murderous ruffian," into the inoffensive "excited politician." But what a pity it is that "excited politicians" so often string themselves up to (verbal) "ruffianism."

* * * * *

THE LAST LIGHT.

It scarce can be thou art the last
To fade before my watchful gaze;
So short the part that each one plays,
A flickering flame, and life is past.

And thou wert clothed in robe of snow,
A crimson veil around thy head,
And now thou liest, charred and dead,
Erstwhile with ruddy fire aglow.

I held thee in a fond embrace
To guard thee from the whistling wind;
And not another can I find
To comfort me and take thy place.

And though I lay aside my weeds,
Yet like a widow I bemoan;
Nor all the wealth the Indies own,
Could satisfy my present needs.

Thy spark has vanished from my sight,
Useless cigar, tobacco, pipe;
Of perfect misery the type,
A man without another light.

* * * * *

EMPLOYMENT FOR THE UNEMPLOYED.--On Tuesday, in last week, the Unemployed had their hands full, when at Temple Avenue they unsuccessfully attempted to overcome the effective resistance of the Police. The Unemployed might have been better employed.

* * * * *

THE STAR OF HOPE.

(_A New Naval Ode._)

[The Royal Commission on Telegraphic Communication between Lighthouses
and Lightships and the Shore, have issued their first report
recommending immediate action in the more urgent cases. Dealing with
the same subject, on November 28, 1891, _Mr. Punch_ said:--

"_Punch_ pictures with prophetic pen, a brighter, cheerier page,
Which _must be turned_, and speedily."--_See "The Sweet Little
Cherub that Sits up Aloft_," (_Modern Version as it Must Be_) Vol.
ci., p. 254.

_Mr. Punch_ is mightily pleased that his injunction has been obeyed,
and that his prophecy is in process of fulfilment.]