Punch: Punch (69.1875)

_PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 18, 1875.

A DREAM OF UNFAIR WOMEN.

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ENEEALiY awake, Punch, like Homee,
has his hours of sleeping; but when his
eyes are closed, his mind is at work.
The dreams of Punch have more wis-
dom in them than the wisest moments
of the profoundest sages. Under these
circumstances even the sleeping seconds
of Punch's life are worthy of record,
and accordingly they are recorded.
Without further preface, then, Punch
relates a dream he dreamed a few weeks
ago—a dream that was also a nightmare.
Punch sat on a cushioned seat. His face was
grave—60 grave, that his white wig did not seem
ridiculous—so grave, that his ermined robes did
not seem less becoming than the motley. He was
sitting in a large apartment, with high, narrow
windows, and roughly-fashioned pews. This large
apartment was crammed from the floor to the
ceiling. Near Punch sat men in gaudy robes; and
it was the fiction of the place that these men,
and not Punch, were the real representatives of
justice. And over one of these gaudily-costumed
men hung a sword. And Punch knew that he held
in his hands a power more terrible than that of
those who wield swords, and level lances upon the
field of battle. He knew that he had the power
to condemn a fellow-creature to a painful, a dis-
graceful, a miserable death. And this knowledge
made Punch grave and sorrowful.
And Punch looked round about him. There were advocates in that large apartment so full of the Shadow of Death, in the
discharge of their duty; and Punch found no fault with them. Did not their profession bring them into that terrible place ? And
there were the reporters, who were there in the service of the Public. And Punch found no fault with them. He knew that crime must
be recorded in the cause of good government and fair play. And then Punch looked upon the white face of a man who was dying—
man who was full of life andj.strength, and yet was dying. And as he looked at that face, he thought "Who would be here