PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 93.

JULY 16, 1887.

THE LAST VISIT TO THE ACADEMY.

No. 691. The Donkey Rider Stopped. "You can't go further than this for twopence."	No. 540. Arrival of the G.O.M. Collars in Venice.
No. 35. A Brave Lassie. "Come on!—the whole lot of you! I'll give it you!"	No. 928. Cat and Child Fight.

ABSURD TO A DEGREE.

Now that girls have proved themselves capable of earning the highest University honours, why should women remain debarred of University degrees? If any senatorial difficulty precludes the removal of that ridiculous injustice, a girl forbidden to term herself a Bachelor of Arts, for example, might, it has been suggested, "invent some other title more significant of the distinction she has won." No invention could be easier. Her alternative for Bachelor would be obviously Spinster of Arts. No Graduate able to pass the Pons Asinorum can be such a preposterous donkey as to persist in denying even the plainest—possibly the prettiest—Passwoman that. The Dons will be unworthy of the name they go by unless they immediately remove the disability their old-world statutes have imposed upon the Donne.

ROBERT AT THE ACADEMY.

I paid my reglar wisit to the Academy last week, and was glad to find that my werry ernest remonstrance of last year had perduced sech a change as regards Staggerers. No Miss Menads a hunting in Burnham Beeches without no close on to speak of, and no Mr. Cassandra a carrying off of a pore yung lady afore she's had time to dress, merely because she upset the salad-bowl.

I don't think it's because "familyaryty breeds content," as the poet says, that I am less staggered than last year, but becos there ain't so many staggerers to be staggered at. Not that there ain't none. Why, there's one lady in the werry same dishabil as Madame Wenus herself a poring out somethink that the Catalog says is a incantashun, but then her pecooliar costoom is reelly xcusable, for she's that red hot that wood excuse anythink or nothink, as in her case.

One of the jolliest picturs to my mind is a portrate of a Port Wine drinker. Why, it seems to be a oozing out of ewery pore of his skin! and nothink younger than '63, I'll be bound. What a life to lead, and what a life to look back upon with proud satisfacshun!

Poor Lord Hartington looks terribly bored at having to be gazed at so constantly by so many longing, if not loving, eyes, and at being pinted at by the old dowagers as their bo ideall of a sun in law.

Ah, Mr. Story tells us a story as I've offen witnessed, when a young swell stands treat to a few frends and then ain't got enuff money to pay the bill! Wot a nuisance for him, but still wuss for the Landlord, and wussest of all for the pore Waiter. Poor Mr. Grossmith looks werry much paler than when I saw him after a jolly dinner at the Mettropole. I thinks as a glass or two of old Port would do him all the good in the world.

I now come to another staggerer, that fairly puzzles me. It's a nice young Lady, named, as I see by the Catalog, Euridice, which I beleeve is Greek for "You're a nice one!" who is a trying for to pull a rock down, but I'm sure she'll never do it, though she has taken off ewery morsel of her close, ewen down to her stockings, to give her more strength. I really wonders as she doesn't put a few of her things on, as she must see as Mr. Hades is a cumming towards her, and won't he jest be shocked! And then here's another young Lady, almost as lightly drest, a sitting quietly on a large cold stone, as if there wasn't no North-East wind a blowing, and by moonlight too. What time can she expect to git home, and what will her poor Mother say when she sees her?

If I'd ha' bin Mr. Hayne, Esq., M.P., I'd ha bort a new Hat afore I was painted for my pictur, and ewen gone to the xpense of a new pair of gloves, speshally as his pictur is a going to be given to sumbody. So now he'll go down to remote posteriority with a shabby Hat, and a old pair of gloves on his table. His new Coat looks butifool. It is, I'm told, a capital likeness.

The Lord Mare is placed in his proper persition as first in the best room, and looks as happy and as jolly as I've no dout he ginerally feels, though he don't never seem to git no rest.

In the next rooms its the great Cardinal Manning, who ewerybody loves and respects, Waiters and all, though it does rather try our loyalty to see him at dinner, when he don't eat enuff wittles to fatten a church mouse. If I'd ha' bin Sir Edward Watkin, the grate Railway King, I'd ha had a much cleaner shave afore I set for my pictur than he had. I know as he doesn't like to be thought a close shaver in gineral, but, in this werry partickler case, he might have made a xcepshun to his gineral rule.

There's a lovely pictur called Ambrosia, a ewident misprint for Hambrosia—probably a new kind of sandwitch—in which there's a werry model of a good-looking waitress a carrying such a elegant little lunshon, as reelly made me quite hungry to look at. I thinks as the reel natives is quite a triumph of Hart. There's quite a grand pictur of the dear old Bank, with all the Carts and Cabs and Omnibuses, and people being all scrowged up together, just like life, and ewerybody a wondering how on earth they shall hever be able to cross, jest like life, and the Bus Coachman a flirtin with the lady passenger on the box, jest like life, and the Policeman a driving away the pore little beggar, jest like life. Ah, it's a reel lovely pictur that is, and werry creditabel to Mr. Dogstail who I'm told painted it.

I think the most perthetic pictur in the hole lot is the one called "the Dunce." He's a setting all by hisself, pore feller, what they calls detained, a trying his werry best to do his lesson and he can't do it. And why, coz his thoughts is away out in the playground, where he hears the shouts and the larfing of his skool-fellers. Now, what shood I do, Doctor Abbott, if I was his master? Why I shood let him have a nours run with his playmates, and then, when he cums in fresh and jolly, try him again, and praps he'd estonish you. I was a Dunce myself wunce, spechally at spelling, and that's how I was cured.

How werry contented all the Parsons looks, they lolls back in their cumferal chairs as much as to say to the tired wisitors, "Don't you