degrees presented under cover of monstrous hoops. Everybody wore crinoline in those days. It was the thing, the only possible thing, and the average human mind could not grasp the idea of there being any other way of arraying the female form. But the prophetic eye of one of the most brilliant of Mr. Punch's Young Men peered into the future and beheld what was to come.^[1] In the very midst of delineations of these everyday monstrosities, fearful in the drawing-room, grotesquely exaggerated in the kitchen, John Leech flashed forth a view of the future. There are three sketches of girls, two in the eelskin dress that marked the rebound from the hideous tyranny of crinoline, and the third showing a style of dress that might have been sketched to-day in Bond Street, not forgetting the upper rearward segment of the crinoline which survives at this day to hint what has been. Ex pede Herculem. It seemed at the date a monstrous idea, a nightmare fancy, peradventure a joke. But Mr. Punch's calm eye pierced the veil of the future, and saw then, as he has always seen, what was to be.

This, Sir, is only a solitary instance of your prescience cited in accidentally turning over the collected pages that seem so familiar and are still so fresh. I could quote indefinitely as I turn over the leaves. But time is shorter than usual this evening. There is less than an hour left of 1877. The procession I spoke of just now has passed out and closed the doors. Under brighter and more inspiriting auspices comes another group. May I present them to my honoured Master? Eighteen Eighty-Eight this is Mr. Punch of whom you may have heard. Mr. Punch, this is Eighteen Eigthy-Eight of whom I expect you will hear a good deal. And here, happier in his possessions than King Lear, are his four daughters—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. They come to wish you a Happy New Year in which no one joins so heartily as your humble friend and servitor, Toby, M.P.

WHAT OUR ARTIST HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

Friendly Critic. "Humph! A little Woolly in Texture, isn't it? Of course I don't mean the Sheep!"

FROM A COUNTRY COUSIN.

My Dear Mr. Punch,

I thank you for your advice. You were right when you told me to go and see Mrs. Bernard Beere in As in a Looking Glass. Indeed, she does hold the mirror up to "nature,"—which is in this instance what Zola calls la bête humaine,—and in it is reflected the worn face, so weary of wickedness and so hopeless of the future, of Lena Despard. The moral of the story—for moral there is—is never out of date. If we can ever retrace any of our steps in life, which I doubt, there are at all events some false steps that never can be retraced. Our deeds become part and parcel of ourselves, and we can no more rid ourselves of them than we can jump off our shadows.

And yet la bête humaine, has not quite killed the soul of this adventuress, for she is still capable of a real love, and of proving its reality by an awful self-sacrifice. This is not a Christmas spirit, is it? But you see I went before Christmas, and having done with tragedy, I am looking forward to pantomimical stuff and nonsense. I had not read the novel,—you have, but considerately refrained from telling me the plot,—so I enjoyed the performance without my memory compelling me to compare it, for better or worse, with the original story.

I have never seen Mrs. Beere play anything before this, nor have I seen Sarah Bernhardt, who, as you tell me, was in other pieces this lady's model. A London Cousin of mine, who is a theatre-goer, and knows several of the leading actors and actresses "at home," tells me that in this piece the individuality of the actress is completely merged in the part, and that it is only when she is saying something very cynical, that he was reminded by a mannerism peculiar to this actress how bitter this Beere could be on occasion. It is a pity her name is Beere, because when I asked my cousin (do you know him—Joseph Miller?) if, off the stage, this lady was really thin and tall, he replied, "Yes—Mrs. Beere was never stout, and was never a half-and-half sort of actress."

And then, when I pressed him for serious answer, he said, "Well, she's Lena on the stage, as you see." What is one to do with a joker like this, except go with him to a Pantomime, Burlesque, or Circus? Yours, Little Peterkin.

P.S.—The Opéra Comique is not the Theatre for a tragédienne. Joe says, "Yes it is—for Mrs. Beere, because of the 'Op in it."

"DE DEUX SHOWS, UNE."

On Thursday night, Mr. Wilson Barrett, brought out a new piece at the Globe, and in Leicester Square, the Empire Variety Show was inaugurated. The good-natured "Visible Prince," who is always ready to encourage Art in any form, and willing to "open" anything from a Cathedral to an Oyster, was present at this première of the New Music Hall. Poor W. B! "How long! How long!" By the way, it may be necessary to explain to some simple persons, that The Empire has nothing whatever to do with The Imperial Institute.

A Christmas Tip.

"Tally ho! Yoicks, over there!" Which being translated, means go and see the Sporting "Illustrations" at German Reed's—not "German" at all, for you must always take this title cum corney grano, but "So English, you know." And Corney Grain's song afterwards, that marvellous duet between Corney and Piano,—excellent!

There is now an Examination for everything. A man can't even become a Bankrupt without passing an examination. Very hard this.

Something to Swallow.—Tom Toper says, "Shakspeare's plays were written partly by Shakspeare and partly by Bacon. It was a 'split B. & S.'"

The Recent Prize-Fight.—What the French thought of it: an In-Seine proceeding.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

I have just come across something on Modern Wiggism in the shape of an amusing advertising book on the Wigs supplied to leading actors by