["The English landscape is being transformed into a dumping-ground for catchpenny eyesores."--_See the "Nineteenth Century" for June._] [Illustration] For Soap and Pill each English slope and hill Is now a background, and the cry is, "Still They come;" these public nuisances, that mar The fair earth's face, like some unsightly scar. Who possibly can care, I ask, to learn That Juno Soap Saves Washing, or to turn A gaze disgusted on some blatant board, By which the devious tourist is implored To try the Lightning Pill that never fails To spot the Spot, or cure whatever ails? JOHN BULL, his missus and the kids, I hope, Do not entirely live on pills and soap. And yet you'd surely think so, when you've scanned The nostrum-signs that so adorn our land! Oh! heavily I'd tax 'em, if I might! And keep the landscape clear. Am I not right? [_Terminus. Exit, fuming._ * * * * * SOCIETY'S NEXT CRAZE. (_As foreseen by Mr. Punch's Second-sighted Clairvoyant._) _It is the summer of 1896--or possibly '97. The scene is a road skirting Victoria Park, Bethnal Green, which Society's leaders have recently discovered and appointed as the_ rendez-vous _for the Season, and where it is now the correct thing for all really smart people to indulge, between certain prescribed hours, in sports and pastimes that have hitherto been more characteristic of the masses than the classes. The only permissible mount now is the donkey, which must be ridden close to the tail, and referred to as a "moke." A crowd of well-turned-out spectators arrives from the West End every morning about eleven to watch the brilliant parade of "Mokestrians" (as the Society journalist will already have decided to call them). Some drive slowly up and down on coster-barrows, attended by cockaded and disgusted grooms. About twelve, they break up into light luncheon parties; after which they play democratic games for half an hour or so, and drive home on drags._ [Illustration] _Mr. Woodby-Innett_ (_to the_ Donkey Proprietor). Kept a moke for me? I told you I should be wantin' one every mornin' now. _The Donkey Proprietor_ (_after consulting engagement-book_). I've not got it down on my list, Sir. Very sorry, but the Countess of CUMBERBACK has just booked the last for the 'ole of this week. Might let you 'ave one by-and-by, if Sir HASCOT GOODWOOD brings his in punctual, but I can't promise it.