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  PUNCH,

  OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

  VOLUME 93.

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  JULY 16, 1887.

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THE LAST VISIT TO THE ACADEMY.

[Illustration: No. 691. The Donkey Rider Stopped. "You can't go further
than this for twopence."]

[Illustration: No. 540. Arrival of the G.O.M. Collars in Venice.]

[Illustration: No. 35. A Brave Lassie. "Come on!--the whole lot of you!
I'll give it you!"]

[Illustration: No. 928. Cat and Child Fight.]

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ABSURD TO A DEGREE.

Now that girls have proved themselves capable of earning the highest
University honours, why should women remain debarred of University
degrees? If any senatorial difficulty precludes the removal of that
ridiculous injustice, a girl forbidden to term herself a Bachelor of
Arts, for example, might, it has been suggested, "invent some other
title more significant of the distinction she has won." No invention
could be easier. Her alternative for Bachelor would be obviously
Spinster of Arts. No Graduate able to pass the _Pons Asinorum_ can be
such a preposterous donkey as to persist in denying even the
plainest--possibly the prettiest--Passwoman that. The Dons will be
unworthy of the name they go by unless they immediately remove the
disability their old-world statutes have imposed upon the _Donne_.

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ROBERT AT THE ACADEMY.

I PAID my reglar wisit to the Academy last week, and was glad to find
that my werry ernest remonstrance of last year had perduced sech a
change as regards Staggerers. No Miss Menads a hunting in Burnham
Beeches without no close on to speak of, and no Mr. Cassandra a carrying
off of a pore yung lady afore she's had time to dress, merely because
she upset the salad-bowl.

I don't think it's because "familyaryty breeds content," as the poet
says, that I am less staggered than last year, but becos there ain't so
many staggerers to be staggered at. Not that there ain't none. Why,
there's one lady in the werry same dishabil as Madame Wenus herself a
poring out somethink that the Catalog says is a incantashun, but then
her pecooliar costoom is reelly xcusable, for she's that red hot that
wood excuse anythink or nothink, as in her case.

One of the jolliest picturs to my mind is a portrate of a Port Wine
drinker. Why, it seems to be a oozing out of ewery pore of his skin! and
nothink younger than '63, I'll be bound. What a life to lead, and what a
life to look back upon with proud satisfacshun!

Poor Lord HARTINGTON looks terribly bored at having to be gazed at so
constantly by so many longing, if not loving, eyes, and at being pinted
at by the old dowagers as their bo ideall of a sun in law.

Ah, Mr. STORY tells us a story as I've offen witnessed, when a young
swell stands treat to a few frends and then ain't got enuff money to pay
the bill! Wot a nuisance for him, but still wuss for the Landlord, and
wussest of all for the pore Waiter. Poor Mr. GROSSMITH looks werry much