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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-646-US (US-ASCII) ***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) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 21818-h.htm or 21818-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/8/1/21818/21818-h/21818-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/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
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