Jones. "Oh, pretty Flat. Er—awfully pretty Flat!"
FASHION AND FELONY.
Mr. Punch, Sir,—Magistrates are beginning, not a moment too soon, to protest against the ridiculous pockets in ladies' dresses, which afford such a temptation to the felonious classes! I should like to draw attention to an invention of my own which, I think, quite meets the difficulty. It is called the "Patent Unpickable Electrical Safety Pneumatic Combination Purse-Pocket," and it does not matter in the least in what part of the dress this pocket is placed. No sooner is the thief's hand in contact with the purse than a powerful voltaic circuit is at once formed, and by the principle of capillary attraction, coupled with that of molecular magnetisation, the hand is firmly imprisoned. Scientific readers will readily understand how this happens. In his efforts to release his hand the thief touches a button, when an electrical search light of five thousand candle-power is at once thrown around, a policeman's rattle of a peculiarly intense tone is set going, several land torpedoes discharge simultaneously from all sides of the dress, while the voice of a deceased judge issuing from a concealed phonograph pronounces a sentence of seven years' penal servitude on the now conscience-stricken depredator.
Yours, Edison Junior.
John Walter.
Born 1818. Died November 3, 1894.
["The unique characteristic of Mr. Walter's life was his relation to The Times."—Obituary Notice in the Times Newspaper.]
Third of the name, and worthy heir
To the Great Journal's power—and care,
He, too, has passed, and left a void
None else can fill. A life employed
In arduous duty to that page
Which holds the history of an age,
Is sound State-service, and demands
Acclaim from British hearts and hands.
A sober, serious Englishman,
Steadfast of purpose, firm of plan,
He held his great inheritance
With strong clean hands, with cool clear glance.
Unmoved by the hot moment, blown
By no chance wind, he held his own
Determined course, despite disfame
From lips whose praise he held as shame,
Or right or wrong, his high intent,
Shaken by no weak sentiment,
To manly souls was manifest;
And now he passes to his rest
Punch lays his laurel on the bier
Of one whom sorrow shook, not fear;
Whose record o'er earth's realms and climes
Lives in those words "He was The Times!"