Berkeley Square, W.
MR. PUNCH, Sir,
I am surprised to find a Journal of your standing lowering itself to follow the example of the so-called “Society Journals” by inserting contributions from women!—I have discovered, no matter how, that My Wife, who always declares she hates letter-writing, has for months past contributed a long weekly letter to Punch, dealing with racing from a humorous (save the mark!) point of view! Now I never make jokes myself—at least intentionally—nor do I think it becomes a man of position to do so—and I quite agree with SWIFT or SHERIDAN (I know it was one of these infernal clever literary chaps) who said, “A humorous woman is a delusion and a snare!”—so you may imagine my disgust at finding My Wife writing for a Journal!—why couldn’t she have asked Me to help her?—and signing her articles anonymously too!—for I need hardly tell you she is no more “GAY” than I am!—at all events when in my society!
Like most busy idlers (that is not intended for a joke)—I go racing a bit, and of course “have a bit on” like other people, and having tried all the turf-prophets in turn, with unsatisfactory results, I was delighted to hear from a friend that “a new DANIEL had come to judgment” in the person of a tipster on Punch, who was “wonderful good”—(it was just the time when she did blunder on to a winner)—and I made up my mind to follow the new Prophet DANIEL; but, by Jove! it resulted in a loss, and DANIEL landed me among the lions in no time! These are not jokes, but sober facts—I plunged heavily on all the “Selections,” and am now in the pleasant position of owing the Ring a substantial sum in addition to “the old,” through following My Wife’s advice—whilst her banking-account is considerably augmented through having laid against her own tips! This may be humorous, but as i said, I don’t approve of humour when exercised on myself!
I laughed most consumedly at some of her articles, but on looking them over again—(she has kept the lot, pasted in a book—a monument to my fatuity!)—I don’t think so much of them now I know she wrote them, and see that I could have made numberless valuable suggestions had she only seen fit to consult me! Of course I could stop any further contribution on her part, but consideration for your readers (?) prevents that—to say nothing of her determination to continue—so I have therefore consented to her odd whim, on the condition that in future I “edit” her contributions;—I need hardly assure you that I shall confine my “editing” strictly to these limits, and that your own Editor need be under no apprehension as to my usurping his place,—ably as I should, no doubt, fill it!
My Wife begs me to follow her example, and conclude with a verse—(I don’t know where she picked up such a bad habit)—but—while bowing to her wishes—(I am always polite)—to a certain extent, I absolutely decline to make the verse other than blank!
I must confess that if compelled
To write for any Journal,
I should prefer as a matter of choice
To write for Punch!
[On a slip of paper found in Sir CHARLES’s envelope, we have the following from our valued contributress—[ED.]:—“DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I am too upset to write—you shall hear from me next week. Tours as devotedly as ever,—LADY GAY.”]
ANECDOTAGE.—Mr. Punch one day was reading aloud from a book of anecdotes when Mr. WEEDON GROSSMITH was present. “What rot!” observed the representative of Lord Arthur Pomeroy. And Mr. Punch agreed with him.
Sit close to your friend, for a frightful end
Is at hand for the miser Jew!
Sit tight to your seat while the pulses beat—
Nestle close to your neighbour, do!
For he’ll perish, alas!
From a property glass
Filled with nothing whatever—neat!
He’s there by himself, counting piles of pelf
Of a counterfeit gamboge hue.
He’s wizened and dried like old Arthur Gride,
That the novelist DICKENS drew.
In the midst of his heaps,
He conveniently sleeps
With his glass at his right-hand side!
Keep watch on the door while he snores his snore—
See it open a foot or two!
Oh! well is it planned! for the wobbling hand
Of the villain, with bottle blue,
Knows at once where to pass
To the property glass
Of the melodramatic brand!
The murderer goes; the Jew’s eyes unclose,
And they look for his liquor true!
Sit tight while the treat is at fever heat;
For I saw by that bottle blue,
And I knew by its label too,
That the stuff it contained,
If by anyone drained,
Must prove fatal if taken neat!
The poison he lifts, and the lot he shifts!
Oh! unfortunate miser Jew!
What use is your gold, now your time is told,
And your moments in life are few?
You may writhe where you sit
Like an eel in a fit,
But you’ll die like the Jews of old!
You may struggle a lot,
And get awfully hot,
But you’ll have to lie stiff and cold!
You may wriggle no end,
But you’re a dead ’un, my friend—
Till the Curtain is quite unrolled!
☞ NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.