A KIND INQUIRY.
Dear Mr. Punch,—A touching epitaph has lately come under my notice. It runs as follows:—
"HIC JACET ANONYMA.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Where yellow asters throve,
A maid whom there were few to praise
And fewer still to love.
She lived unknown, so none can know
The hour she ceased to be,
Enough to know she has, and oh!
Pray, all men, R. I. P."
Is it possible that our old friend, the New Woman, that quite "impossible she," has left us for "another place"? It seems almost too good to be true.
Yours unfeelingly,
A. Misoneogynist.
P.S.—You will observe that she died a spinster, of uncertain age.
A sportsman, not particularly literary, but very fond of theatricals, says that he hears there is a play going on called Don Quickshot. He thinks the first syllable may have been accidentally omitted, but feels certain that the London Quickshot ought to make a hit.
Scoring for Dr. Grace.—"A Running Commentary."
