Chapter 3

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_!

Believe me, Yours obediently, CHARLES POMPERSON (Bart.).

JOURNALISTIC SELECTION.

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.”]

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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.

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PHANTASMA-GORE-IA.

_PICTURING THE VARIOUS MODES OF MELODRAMATIC MURDER. (BY OUR “OFF-HIS”-HEAD POET.)_

NO. II.—THE POISON MURDER.

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!

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☞ 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.