accident.  The late H.J.  BYRON contributed a series of papers.  Mr. PUNCH hastens to put them—­as he would gladly some others—­“on the list,” since, of no one of them, could it be truly said “he never would be missed.”  “HALBOT” was a misprint for “HABLÔT,” “MAGUIN HANNAY” should read “MAGINN, HANNAY, &c.,” and for “GEORGE SILVER” read “HENRY.”

* * * * *

THE METROPOLITAN MINOTAUR;

OR, THE LONDON LABYRINTH AND THE COUNTY COUNCIL THESEUS.

["Certainly, if some members of the London County Council have their way, it will soon have plenty to occupy it without being called upon to form a scheme of water-supply for the Metropolis.”—­The Times.]

[Illustration]

L.C.C. loquitur:—­

  Bless me!  Things combine so a hero to humble! 
  I fancied that Bull-headed Minotaur—­BUMBLE,
  Would fall to my hand like Pasiphae’s monster
  To Theseus.  But oh! every step that I on stir
  Bemuddles me more.  I did think myself clever,
  But fear from the Centre I’m farther than ever,
  Oh, this is a Labyrinth!  Worse than the Cretan! 
  Yet shall the new Theseus admit himself beaten? 
  Forbid it, great Progress!  Your votary I, Ma’am,
  But in this Big Maze it seems small use to try, Ma’am. 
  Mere roundaboutation’s not Progress.  Get forward? 
  Why eastward, and westward and southward, and nor’ward,
  Big barriers stop me!  Eh?  Centralisation? 
  Demolish that monster, Maladministration,
  Whose menaces fright the fair tower-crowned Maiden. 
  Most willingly, Madam; but look how I’m laden,
  And hampered!  Oh!  I should be grateful to you, Ma’am,
  If, like Ariadne, you’d give me a clue, Ma’am.
  I’ll never—­like treacherous Theseus—­desert you;
  My constancy’s staunch, like my valour and virtue. 
  Through Fire, Water, Wilderness trackless I’ll follow,
  But astray in a Maze high ambition seems hollow!

* * * * *

WATERLOO TO WEYBRIDGE.

BY THE 6.5 P.M.

  A young man—­it’s no matter who—­
  Hailed a cab and remarked “Waterloo!”
    The driver, with bowed
    Head, sobbed out aloud,
  “Which station?” They frequently do.

  A poet once said that to Esher
  The only good rhyme was “magnesher;”
    This was not the fact,
    And he had to retract,
  Which he did—­he retracted with plesher.

  A fancier cried:  “There’s one fault on
  The part of the sparrows at Walton;
    And that’s why I fail
    To put salt on their tail—­
  The birds have no tails to put salt on.”

  The dulness of riding to Weybridge
  Pleasant chat (mind the accent) may abridge,
    But not when it deals
    With detaching of wheels,
  Collisions, explosions, and Tay Bridge.