E-text prepared by Matt Whittaker, Juliet Sutherland, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://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: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/1/8/1/21818/21818-h/21818-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/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 and japes), But--now the thing lacks go. "What though the grumbler Man put forth His pompous power and skill! He could not make Woman and WORTH The vassals of his will;-- Fashion, I mourn thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned Queen! To play To empty box and stall; To dress--when not another She Exists to quicken rivalry-- No, it won't pay at all! "Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the works of men! Nothing they did that's worth recall, With sword, or spade, or pen. Their bumptious bunglings bring not back! Man always _was_ a noisy quack Who thought himself a god; But when he fancied he had scored Prodigiously, the Sex he bored Subdued him with a nod. "Now I am weary. No one tries The fit of new attire! Doom, that the joys of Dress denies, Bids Woman's bliss expire. But shall _La Mode_ know final death? Forbid it Woman's latest breath! Death--who is _male_--shan't boast The eclipse of Fashion. Such a pall Shall not like Darkness cover all-- Till _I_ give up the ghost!