ge and noisy-hinged,
Shamed the still air about it, or obscured
Its every view. Is it to be endured,
O much-enduring Briton? There be those
Who'd scrawl advertisements of Hogs or Hose
Across the sun-disc as it flames at noon,
Or daub the praise of Pickles o'er the moon.
Unmoved by civic pride, unchecked by taste,
They 'd smear the general sky with poster's paste
And at Dan Phoebus seem to "take a sight."
Colossal bottles blot the air, to tell
That MUCKSON's Temperance drink is a great sell.
Here's a huge hat, as black as sombre Styx,
Flanked by the winsome legend, "Ten and Six."
Other Sky-signs praise Carpets, Ginghams, Socks,
Mugg's Music-hall, and "Essence of the Ox."
Bah! GAY's trim Muse might sicken of her rhymes
Had she to read these Sky-signs of the Times!

[Illustration]

* * * * *

IN THE KNOW.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN PROPHET._)

I Was aware that Mr. J. was a semolina-brained impostor, but I should
never have conceived that even he, the jelly-faced chief of the
chowder-heads, could have attained to such a pitch of folly as to
inform me that "the _Prix Montyon_ is not a medal, and cannot be
worn at Court." These are his words. Did I ever say it was a medal? I
remarked that the QUEEN had given me permission to wear it at Court.
That is true. But I never said that I would or could so wear it. As
for Her Most Gracious Majesty's permission, it was conveyed to me in
a document beginning, "VICTORIA, by the grace of," &c, and containing
the signature of Lord HALSBURY, the Lord Chancellor--No, by the way,
that is another Royal communication. The Permission begins, "To
our right trusty and well-beloved." What beautiful, confiding,
affectionate words are these! Who can wonder that a Queen who
habitually makes use of them should reign in the hearts of her
subjects?

Since I returned from France I have been on a further and more
extensive Continental tour, and have received more marks of
distinction from various Crowned Heads. Did you hear the strange story
of what took place at the meeting of the German EMPEROR with the
CZAR of Russia? It was the hour of the mid-day meal. The EMPEROR, at
the head of his Wyborg Regiment, had performed prodigies of valour.
Mounted on his fiery _Tchinovick_ (a Circassian mustang) he had
ridden into the heart of the hostile position, and with one stroke
of his _Pen_ (a sort of Russian scimetar with a jewelled hilt) he