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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893
    Ebook87 pages43 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893

    By Various Various and F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893, by Various, Edited by Francis Burnand

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893

      Author: Various

      Editor: Francis Burnand

      Release Date: June 12, 2007 [eBook #21818]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 104, FEBRUARY 11, 1893***

      E-text prepared by Matt Whittaker, Juliet Sutherland,

      and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

      (http://www.pgdp.net)

      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

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