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BETTER LATE THAN NEVER.—­At last by the authority of the L.C.C. his Grace of BEDFORD has been notified that within three months from now “Locks, bolts, and bars must fly asunder” in the parish of St. Pancras, where henceforth existence of all such obstruction is to cease.  We hope that the gate-keepers, whose occupation is gone, have been amply provided for, as they will now have no gates, but only themselves to keep. Mr. Punch has persistently advocated the reform.  And now, Gentlemen, how about Mud Salad Market, which, like Scotland in Macbeth’s time, “stands where it did”?

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[Illustration:  FASCINATION!

“APOLLONIUS, by some probable conjectures, found her out to be a serpent, a Lamia; and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus’s gold described by HOMER, no substance, but mere illusion.”—­Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.]

  A LAMIA, this?  Nay, obvious coil, and hiss most unequivocal, betray the
      Snake;
  As fell ophidian as in fierce meridian of Afric ever lurked in swamp or
      brake;
  And yet Corinthian LYCIUS never doted on the white-throated charmer of
      his soul
  With blinder passion than our fools of Fashion
                                Feel for this gruesome ghoul.

  Poor LYCIUS had excuse.  Who might refuse worship to Lamia, “now a lady
      bright”? 
  But foul-fanged here, fierce-eyed, a shape of fear, the serpent stands,
  revealed to general sight,
  A loathly thing, close knotted ring on ring, of guise unlovely, and
      infectious breath;
  And yet strong witchery draws to those wide jaws
                                Whose touch is shameful death.

  See how the flattering things on painted wings, foolish as gnat-swarms
      near the shrivelling blaze,
  Flock nearer, nearer!  Forms, too, quainter, queerer, frog-dupes of folly,
      rabbit-thralls of craze,
  Butterfly triflers, gay-plumed would-be riflers of golden chalices, of
      poisoned flowers,
  Flitter and flutter in delirium utter,
                                As drawn by wizard powers.

  Oh, “Painted Lady,” Summer coverts shady, the greenwood home, the sweep
      of sunny fields,
  A butterfly befit; but where’s the wit that mire-befouled to the
      swamp-demon yields? 
  Oh, birds of Iris-glitter, black and bitter will be the wakening when
      those gaudy plumes
  Fall crushed and leaden, as your senses deaden
                                In poisonous Python fumes!

  Ye gobemouche creatures of batrachian features, who “go a-wooing” such
      a fate as this,
  Have ye no vision of that doom’s decision?  Have ye no ear for rattle or
      for hiss? 
  Salammbo’s craving, morbid and enslaving, was sanity compared with your
      mad love,
  As well the swallow the fierce shrike might follow,
                                Or hawk be chased by dove!