Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari June 10 1914 by Various Seaman Owen Editor

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Ebook has 251 lines and 16660 words, and 6 pages

BLANCHE'S LETTERS.

Vagaries of the Moment.

Ever thine,

Blanche.

DISCLAIMERS.

"As a thorough-going democrat I always travel steerage; I'd sooner eat my Sunday hat Than take a nasty Peerage; Such sops the snobbish crowd may soothe, But not yours truly, Handel Booth."

"As a simple Knight I'm quite all right, But to make me a peer Would be rather queer; It might also disturb Sir George," says Sir Herb.

"This time you've backed the winning horse, I'm bound to be a Duke, of course; But wait and see--the slightest hitch Might altogether queer my pitch; So mum's the word," says Little Tich.

"He that on frippery sets his heart May purchase titles such as Bart.; These garish gauds my spirit spurns, I'm greater as I am," says Burns.

"Yon tale aboot ma Coronet Is comin' off, but not juist yet; Aw'm haudin' oot for somethin' smarter, For choice the Thistle or the Garter; Whichever ribbon is the broader A'll tak wi' joy," says Harry Lauder.

THE COMPLETE DRAMATIST.

THE NAKED TRUTH.

House to be Sold, with Garage--or can be let alone; detached ; standing on its own ground . There are three stories: that it is haunted, that it is unfit for human habitation, that it is mortgaged up to the hilt. The title is undisputed.

The sky-light affords an unobstructed view of the firmament--not surpassed in the wilds of Scotland.

The garden is small, but cannot possibly be overlooked even by the most short-sighted and unobservant. The soil is very fertile, grass growing readily under the feet. The presence of the early bird indicates an abundance of ground game. There is some fine ancient timber in a corner, possibly the remains of a bicycle shed.

On the ground floor are three sitting-rooms, each with standing room also; every one of them is a study. There is no actual smoking-room, but one can be improvised in a moment by lighting any of the fires. There is a large attic suitable for a billiard-room for short men. The wine-cellar contains fifty cubic feet of water, thus ensuring a uniform temperature; there is a large collection of empty bottles, which could be left. The water supply is constant, so also are the applications for rates. The drains on the property are immense. There is gas all over the house. Summonses are served at the door, and the tradesmen call many times daily and wait if you are out.

The owner is obliged to go abroad for private reasons and must dispose of the property at once. The house, being concrete, can be seen at any time, or an abstract can be had on application to the Caretaker who is within--or should be. If not within will be found at the "King's Arms" next door. For particulars apply to Phibbs and Gammon, Jerry Buildings, Wapping.

"Dr. A. M. Low, of Shepherd's Bush, states that he has discovered a process by which photographs can be sent four miles."

And in these days they can be very small indeed.

ART AT THE CALEDONIAN MARKET.

A SPORTING OFFER.

Can this be true? that hodmen strike? The very thought my soul bewilders. Has Art, has beauty got no spike To perforate the breasts of builders?

Her bricky teeth flung far and wide, On virgin fields my London browses, The amaranthine plains are pied With nutty little bijou houses.

Here Daphne makes the junket set Or squeezes from the curd the pale whey, And drone of bees holies the Met- ropolitan and District Railway.

Here Amaryllis tends the hearth Till, home returning from the City, Her Damon comes to weed the garth .

Here in the golden sunset's haze Is love, I ween, no whit less hearty Than when it walked in soot-grimed ways, But, oh how chic and oh how arty!

The cots themselves are spick and span, Filling with awe the gross intruder; Their style is early Georgian, Which looks like measles mixed with Tudor.

Through little panes be-diamonded The scented dusk comes softly stealing; When you get up you strike your head Severely on the timbered ceiling.

And some break out in sudden wings And bloom with unsuspected gables; The cubic area of the things Prevents one getting round the tables.

Far other was the task of thralls Who had to rear these inner suburbs, Piling the sad Victorian walls Where each wan window laced its tub-herbs.

Small wonder had they cried, I wis, Shedding large tears amongst their mortar, "We cannot build such streets as this Without two extra pints of porter!"

But now--ah well! Here is a bard Long versed in wild extravaganza, Knowing the foot-rule, and to lard With purple bits the pounding stanza;

A little weary of the harp, Metres and rhymes that fail to dowel, Willing to turn from pains so sharp To some soft labour with the trowel.

Sooner than let our love-birds pine For post-impressionistic dwellings, With all the windows out of line And curious humps and antic swellings,

The motley Muse's maundering nous Cares nothing what the union rate is, If any young things want a house I'll build the kickshaw for them gratis.

Evoe.

Another Impending Apology.

"She was slightly troubled with sore chins, and went to the post in scratchy fashion."

No wonder.

"THE SINCEREST FLATTERY."

AN ADVANCE FINALE.

Aurora let fall the book she was reading, a celebrated pamphlet on the Oxford Tractarian movement, in a cover which was a miracle of Italo-Moroccan tooling, and gazed thoughtfully at the scene before her. Viewed thus in outline, her head in repose had something of the delicacy of a Tanagra figure, while to the eye of a connoisseur the magnificent yet girlish torso might have recalled a Bacchante by Skopas. To her right rose the rugged sides of Garthfell, purple and scarlet in the subdued light; to the left was Felsbeck, and from her feet the ground fell away abruptly till it met the immemorial woods of Supwell. Among them Aurora could distinguish the massive Boadicean keep of Supwell Castle, strangely yet harmoniously blended with the neo-Byzantine portico of white marble designed by Inigo Jones for the thirty-first Earl. She remembered vaguely that she was attending a reception there to-night; but her gaze soon left the noble pile--so typical of all that is best in English architecture--to rest upon the humbler neighbouring group of Lowmere cottages. In one she knew old Ralph, the shepherd, was dying of a painful form of spinal catarrh, directly attributable to the cesspool at his front door; in another the mother of fifteen children was nursing the only remaining one through an attack of mumps, and in a third the breadwinner was lying in the malignant grip of abdominal influenza. Aurora mentally reviewed the chief points of Socialism, Individualism, Syndicalism and Socinianism, as represented by the select group of thinkers to which Cecil belonged.

Following a noiseless footman in the gorgeous Supwell liveries, Mrs. Lovelord and Aurora took up their position under a rare palm at the head of the great ebony staircase, which a royal personage was said to have coveted, and watched the Earl and Countess receive their guests. Mrs. Lovelord's keen eye noted that the Earl was standing on the Countess's train, a priceless piece of Venetian point which had once belonged to the Empress Theodora. Aurora's attention was attracted by a tall grey-haired man wearing the Ribbon of the Garter half-hidden under a variety of lesser decorations; he was talking eagerly, vivaciously to the notorious Duchess of Almondsbury. Cecil, who had joined Aurora at once, whispered that the man was Professor Villeray.

"They say he knows every crowned head in Europe," he said. The great scientist was relating anecdote after anecdote of the people he had known--Charlemagne, Machiavelli, Newman, Dickens, the Shakspeares, father and son. There followed a racy story, inimitably told, of Miss Mitford in her less regenerate days. Aurora turned away.

"Would you care to take a turn through the rooms?" Cecil asked. "The Rembrandts are in tremendous form to-night--what?"

The house was one of historic interest and importance, with that blend of magnificence and domesticity so typical of all that is best in English life. Aurora's eyes wandered from the massive emerald chandeliers, the envy of every connoisseur in Europe, to Raphael's masterly "Madonna," which, with a daring harmony by Sargent, filled the niches on either side of the great mantelpiece, itself a triumph of the art of Niccola of Pisa.

She passed on, her dress, which had taxed the resources of the first modistes of the day, Rue de la Paix, trailing heedlessly over the priceless Aubusson. Aurora turned to find the Home Secretary at her elbow. Instantly she was all eagerness and vivacity.

"Will there be a division?" she asked.

A memory of the Lowmere cottages assailed Aurora. At last she saw her way clearly. Never had she so realised the possibilities of life.

"I will marry Cecil," she said to herself. "With his brains, a million a year, and the breeding to which only the highest circles can attain, we will regenerate England."

Little-known Heroes.

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