J. D. Beresford

“ Punch went on after an interval of ecstatic contemplation, gently thudding the corpse of the constable with his stick as he spoke—"we give them a uniform to show that they are the slaves of an idea. They learn by rote and act by habit; and so it is that the essence of the idea is squandered. For we others have passed on, and have no longer the inclination to renew it. To us comes the moment and the conception. ”

“ Punch apostrophized him; "how many times I have spared you! But I thank Heaven that I am nothing if not consistent. Shall I discard my old ideas one by one and leave this single notion of the joy of life to hamper me?
"Impossible? For it comes to me, now, with a great certainty that I am at the beginning of a new road. No man can be as great and free as Zoroaster until he has discarded the idea of joy, so rightly tricked in the motley of a clown. ”

“ MR. Punch thoughtfully scratched his head with his stick and stared philosophically at the four limp corpses in front of him.
"People may blame me," he reflected, "but what else could I have done? It is not as if these creatures had any real existence outside my own imagination. And surely I may be permitted to change my mind?
"Here, for instance, is all that remains of my idea of Judy. Once she was my notion of a wife—a notion that I cherished as long as could reasonably be expected from a person of my imagination. ”