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

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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893 is a delightful collection of humorous and satirical sketches and cartoons from the late 19th century. The publication offers a unique glimpse into the social and political issues of the time, presented in a witty and entertaining manner.

The contributors to this volume exhibit a sharp wit and clever commentary on various topics, including current events, cultural trends, and the absurdities of everyday life. The cartoons are especially effective in conveying the satirical tone of the publication, with detailed illustrations that add an extra layer of humor to the written content.

Although some of the references may be dated, the overall humor and wit of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893 still resonate with modern readers. Fans of satire and political humor will find this collection to be a charming and enjoyable read that offers a fascinating glimpse into the past.

First Page:

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... Continue reading book >>


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