Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 9

tobacco's not for eating! Pipe-bowls are not meant to burn!
Smoke without expectorating, Do not sputter, do not chew; Puff not as
though emulating Some foul factory's sooty flue
Let not oily dark defilement Sting your lips; there is no need. Joy and
care need reconcilement For enjoyment of the weed.
Trust no "Germans," buy no "British," Sound Havanas only smoke!
"Lady Nicotine" is skittish, Penny Pickwicks are no joke.
Smoke no strong shag, no rank "stinger," Pick your baccy, puff with
skill, And--although you are a singer, You may smoke, and not feel ill.
Let us then be up and smoking, An an Art the thing pursue; As great
SANTLEY, who's not joking, Says he does, and all may do!
* * * * *
LADY GAY'S DISTRACTION.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--You are as fickle as the rest of your sex, I fear,
otherwise you would not have requited my devotion to you and your
interests in such an awful manner as you did in publishing my
husband's letter last week!--and such a letter! Oh, I could write such a
scathing reply to it!
Of course, it was jealousy on the part of Sir CHARLES at my literary
success--(setting aside the wonderful tips)--which caused the explosion
that led to his writing to you, but I never--never--thought you would
insert his letter, especially as I slipped in a postscript which to my mind
explained _everything_--as, indeed, postscripts should do, or what is
the good of writing a long letter about nothing in front of them? The
wretch confesses that he laughed at my articles until he knew who
wrote them, and then thought less of them! Isn't that like a husband?--I
won't say like a man, as so few husbands are men!--at least, in the eyes
of their wives. The moment a wife does something her husband can't do,
he dislikes and pooh-poohs it; whereas, the more accomplishments a
husband displays, the more a wife appreciates him, or says so even if
she doesn't!--which is a noble falsehood, for how few women are
large-minded enough to pretend to admire qualities which they despise
because they don't possess them--I'm not sure that this is what I mean,
nor do I quite understand it, but it reads well, which is more than Sir
CHARLES'S stuff does!
And then his impertinence in proposing to "edit" my letters!--as if
anyone could be more capable of doing that than _you_?--(you will
observe that it is solely on your account that I am annoyed!)--I could
not brook such interference!--I don't know exactly the meaning of
"brooking" anything, but I know I wept enough tears of annoyance to
form a decent "brook" of themselves! I need hardly tell you that it was
a biting sarcasm on my part to suggest that he should finish his letter
with a "verse," as I always do--but there--men don't understand
sarcasm--(one of our most frequently employed weapons of
offence!)--and the poor thing thought I was in earnest, and did it! And
what a verse! I could write better with my left hand!
I need scarcely tell you that I have left him--(this is why my address is

not to be published)--as I consider my duty to the Public rendered it
imperative that I should do so, for I should not think much of any
woman who allowed a paltry consideration of domestic obligations to
weigh against the pursuit of a career of usefulness.
If, therefore, a vein of sadness and cynicism runs through this letter,
you will understand that it does not proceed from any regret at the
"breaking up of the happy home," but rather from sorrow at the thought
that once again the intellectual superiority of one of the softer sex has
not been accepted in the right spirit by the possessor of the weaker
mind, to whom she owes obedience!
I trust I have done with Sir CHARLES for ever!--especially if he
speaks the truth in saying that "following my tips has ruined him"--for
why should any woman burden herself with an impecunious husband?
He does not know where I am, and I feel still more secure in my retreat
from having just heard that he has engaged the services of several of
the most prominent London Detectives to trace me!
Owing no devotion now to Sir CHARLES--who will appreciate the
following tender lines with which I close my letter--
O woman! in our hours of ease, Thou art not very hard to please! Thou
takest what the gods may send; But, thwarted!--thou wilt turn and rend!
I am able to subscribe myself, dear _Mr. Punch_,
Yours more devotedly than ever,
LADY GAY.
[From internal evidence, we are inclined to believe that this present
letter, or the one last week from "Sir CHARLES," is a forgery. In
former correspondence Lady GAY