PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
August 20, 1892.
AD PUELLAM.
["Detective cameras have become favourite playthings with ladies of fashion."—Ladies' Paper.]
You used to prate of plates and prints
And "quick developers" before,
In spite of not unfrequent hints
That these in time become a bore;
But then this photographic craze
Seemed little but a foolish fad,
While now its very latest phase
Appears to me distinctly bad.
Since even your devoted friends
At sight of you were wont to fly,
You manage still to gain your ends,
And photograph them on the sly;
The muff, the cloak with ample folds,
The parcel, and the biscuit-tin,
I know that each discreetly holds
Detective lenses hid within.
Should CROESUS greet you with a smile,
A "bromide" will record the fact;
Should STREPHON help you o'er a stile,
The film will take him in the act.
Yet this renown, if truth be said,
Is fame they'd rather be without;
Nor, I assure you, will they wed
A lady photographic tout.
ANTIQUITY OF GOLF.
That Golf was a game probably known to and played by pre-Adamite Man (whoever he may have been; name and address not given) is evidenced by the learned Canon TRISTRAM's observation in the Biology Section of the British Association Meeting last week, to the effect that "he (the Canon) had never seen a better collection of these Links connecting the present with the past world." This must be most interesting to all Golf-players.
NOT MEMBERS OF "BRITISH ASSOCIATION."
First Passenger (reading Morning Paper). "'PSYCHICAL CHARACTER OF HYSTERICAL AMBLYOPIA'!! DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT 'PSYCHICAL' MEANS! WHAT DOES IT MEAN, OLD MAN?"
Fellow Passenger. "DON'T KNOW, I'M SURE, DEAR BOY! SOMETHING TO DO WITH BRAINS, I B'LIEVE. NOT AT ALL IN MY LINE!"
'ARRIET.
A Realistic Rhapsody.
(With Apologies to Mr. Henry Kendatt, Author of "Astarte," in the "Bookman.")
Across the wind-blown bridges,
O look, lugubrious Night!
She comes, the red-haired beauty
Illumined by gaslight!
By London's dim gaslight!
So hush, ye cads, your roar!
Behind her plumes are waving
Her oil'd fringe flaps before.
O 'ARRIET, Cockney sister,
Your face is writhed with jeers;
How awful is the angle
Of those protuberant ears!
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