Punch (99.1890)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 13, 1890.

TRIUMPHS OF THE FUNNY MAN.

Eired Waiter {handing the liqueurs). "Please, Sib, don't make me Laugh—I shall Spill 'em allI"

WRITE AND WRONG.

As so many private letters are sold at public sales nowadays, it
has become necessary to consider the purport of every epistle
regarded, so to speak, from a post-mortem point of view. If a
public man expresses a confidential opinion in the fulness of his
heart to an intimate friend, or proposes an aot of charity to a
cherished relative, he may rest assured that, sooner or later, both
communications will be published to an unsympathetio and auto-
graph-hunting world. Under these circumstances it may be well
to answer the simplest communications in the most guarded manner
possible. For instance, a reply to a tender of hospitality might run
as follows:—

Private and Confidential, Not negotiable.

Mr. Dash Blank has much pleasure in accepting Mr. Blank
Dash's invitation to dinner on the 8th inst.

N.B.—This letter is the property of the Writer. Not for publi-
cation. All rights reserved.

Or, if the writer feels that his letter, if it gets into the hands of the
executors, will be sold, he must adopt another plan. It will be
then his object to so mix up abuse of the possible vendors with ordi-
nary matter, that they (the possible vendors) may shrink, after the
death of the recipient, from making their own condemnation public.
The following may serve as a model for a communication of this
character. The words printed in italics in the body of the letter
are the antidotal abuse introduced to prevent a posthumous sale by
possible executors.

Private and Confidential. Not to be published. Signature a forgery.

Deab Old Man,—I nearly completed my book. Your nephew,
Tom Lesleigh, is an ass. My wife is slowly recovering from influ-
enza. Your Aunt, Jane Jenkins, wears a wig. Tommy, you will be
glad to learn, has come out first of twenty in his new class at school.
Your Uncle, Benjamin Geaham, is a twaddling old bore. I am
thinking of spending the Midsummer holidays with the boys and
their mother at Broadstairs. Your Cousin, Jack Jugqebxt, it a
sweep that doesn't belong to a single respectable Club. Trusting that
you will burn this letter, to prevent its sale after we are gone,

I remain, yours affectionately, Bobby.

N.B.— The foregoing letter is the property of the Author, and, as
it is only intended for private circulation, must not be printed.
Solicitor's address, — Ely Place.
But perhaps the best plan will be, not to write at all. The tele-
graph, at the end of the century, costs but a halfpenny a word, and
we seem to be within measurable distance of the universal adoption
of the telephone. Under these circumstanoes, it is easy to take heed
of the warning contained in that classical puzzle of our childhood,
Litera scripta manei.

A QUESTION OF TASTE.

Mr. Punch. Well, Madam, what can I do for you ?

Female [of Uncertain Age, gushingly). A very great favour, my
dear Sir ; it is a matter of sanitation.

Mr. P. {coldly). I am at your service, Madam, but I would
remind you that I have no time to listen to frivolous complaints.

Fern. I would ask you—do you think that a building open to
the public should be crowded with double as many persons as it can
conveniently hold ?

Mr. P. Depends upon circumstances, Madam. It might possibly
be excusable in a Church, assuming that the means of egress were
sufficient. Of what building do you wish to complain ?

Fern. Of the Old Bailey—you know, the Central Criminal Court.

Mr. P. Have you to object to the accommodation afforded you
in the Dock ?

Fern. /was not in the Dock!

Mr. P. {dryly). That is the only place (when not in the Witness-
Box) suitable for women at the Old Bailey. I cannot imagine that
they would go to that unhappy spot of their own free will.

Fern, {astonished). Not to see a Murder trial? Then you are
evidently unaccustomed to ladies' society.

Mr. P. {severely). I do not meet ladies at the Old Bailey.

Fern, {bridling up). Indeed! But that is nothing to do with the
matter of the overcrowding. Fancy, with our boasted civilisation
—I was half stifled!

Mr. P. It is a pity, with our boasted civilisation, that you were
not stifled—quite.' {Severely.) You can go!

[The Female retires, with an expression worthy of her proper
place—the Chamber of Horrors !