at which we find to have taken place in its art.
There is nowadays no Jerrold, whose fulminating passion and fine frenzy
often came dangerously near to "high-falutin'." There is perhaps no
versifier at the Table with quite the same fancy or taste as Gilbert
Abbott a Beckett, Shirley Brooks, and Percival Leigh. But we have
instead a keener observation of the life and customs of the day, an
ingenuity and an elegance that go better with the taste and habit of
thought of the times. In the old days it was not uncommon in discussing
_Punch's_ poetry to urge in apology that--

Wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.

Nowadays, when comedy and rapier have to a great extent replaced farce
and sword, finish is accounted of greater importance than of yore, and
grace and daintiness are accepted where simple fun was formerly the
aim--an aim, by the way, which was as frequently missed as now. Let the
reader who is inclined to be as severe on latter-day _Punch_ as on
latter-day everything, take down one of the early volumes, and seek for
the side-splitting articles and epigrams, the verse apoplectic with fun,
which we are taught to expect there. He will learn that it is not so
much that the quality of _Punch_ has changed, despite the great names
of the past. He will find that the change is due rather to modern
fashion and to modern views than to any deterioration of _Punch's_. Good
things are there now, as then; and now, as then, many of the best
writers in the country contribute periodically to its pages. With verse
and article, epigram and parody, _Punch_ continues to be a record and a
mirror of his times--a comic distorting mirror perhaps, but still a
glass of fashion and of history, with fun for its mercury, which,
through its literature, pleasantly and agreeably reflects the deeds and
the thoughts of the people. What of it, if his verse now and again is
only passable? Sometimes it is fine--always acceptable, and rarely below
an elevated established standard; anyhow, some years ago, Mr. Joseph
Chamberlain's single offering was rejected on its demerits by the
"monument of British humour." Perhaps the Editor judged it as _Punch's_
railway-porter judged an old lady's pet in accordance with railway
rules: Cats is "dogs," and rabbits is "dogs," and so's parrots; but this
'ere tortis is a hinsect, and there ain't no--need--for it. And the tone
of _Punch's_ more serious utterances is now that of the dini