PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 100. March 7, 1891. VOCES POPULI. IN A FOG.--A REMINISCENCE OF THE PAST MONTH. SCENE--_Main Thoroughfare near Hyde Park. Time 8 P.M. Nothing visible anywhere, but very much audible; horses slipping and plunging, wheels grinding, crashes, jolts, and English as she is spoke on such occasions._ _Mrs. Flusters_ (_who is seated in a brougham with her husband, on their way to dine with some friends in Cromwell Road_). We shall be dreadfully late, I know we shall! I'm sure PEACOCK could go faster than this if he liked--he always loses his head when there's much traffic. Do tell him to make haste! _Mr. F._ Better let him alone--he knows what he's doing. _Mrs. F._ I don't believe he does, or he wouldn't dawdle like this. If you won't speak to him, I must. (_Lets down the glass and puts out her head._) PEACOCK! _A Blurred Shadow on the Box._ Yes, M'm. _Mrs. F._. What are we stopping for like this? _The Shadow_. Fog very thick just 'ere, M'm. Can't see what's in front of us, M'm. _Mrs. F._ It's just as safe to keep moving as to stand still--go on at once. _The S._ Very good, M'm. (_To horse._) Pull urp! [_Crash!_ _Voice from the Unseen_. What the blanky blank, &c. _Peacock_. There _is_ suthin in front, M'm. A van, from 'is langwich, M'm. _Mrs. F._ (_sinking back_). MARMADUKE, this is awful. I'd no idea the fog was like this--or I should never have--(_With temper._) Really, people have no _right_ to ask one out on such a night. _Mr. F._ (_with the common-sense that makes him "so aggravating at times."_) Well, FANNY, you could hardly expect 'em to foresee the weather three weeks ahead! _Mrs. F._ At all events, _you_ might have seen what it was going to be as you came home from the Temple. Then we could have sent a telegram! _Mr. F._ It seemed to be lifting then, and besides, I--ah--regard a dinner-engagement as a species of kindly social contract, not to be broken except under pressing necessity. _Mrs. F._ You mean you heard me say there was nothing but cold meat in the house, and you know you'll get a good dinner at the CORDON-BLEWITTS,--not that we are likely to get there to-night. Have you any idea whereabouts we are? _Mr. F._ (_calmly_). None whatever. _Mrs. F._ Then ask PEACOCK. _Mr. F._ (_lets down his window, and leans out_). PEACOCK! _The Shadow_. Sir? _Mr. F._ Where have we got to now? _Peacock_. I ain't rightly sure, Sir. _Mrs. F._ Tell him to turn round, and go home. _Mr. F._ It's no use going on like this. Turn back. _Peacock_. I dursn't leave the kerb--all I got to go by, Sir. _Mr. F._ Then take one of the lamps, and lead the horse. _Peacock_. It's the _young_ 'orse, Sir. _Mr. F._ (_sinking back_). We must put up with it, I suppose. [_A smart crack is heard at the back of the carriage._ _More Voices_. Now, then, why the blanky dash, &c., &c.