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Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Vol. 147 July 8 1914 by Various
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Ebook has 289 lines and 21396 words, and 6 pages
PUNCH,
VOLUME 147
July 8, 1914
CHARIVARIA.
LORD BRASSEY is said to be annoyed at the way in which his recent adventure at Kiel was exaggerated. He landed, it seems, on the mole of the Kaiser Dockyard, not noticing a warning to trespassers--and certain of our newspapers proceeded at once to make a mountain out of the mole.
Mr. ROOSEVELT'S American physician, Dr. ALEXANDER LAMBERT, has confirmed the advice of his European physicians that the EX-PRESIDENT must have four months' rest and must keep out of politics absolutely for that period; and it is said that President WILSON is also of the opinion that the distinguished invalid owes it to his country to keep quiet for a time.
At the farewell banquet to Lord GLADSTONE members of the Labour Unions surrounded the hotel and booed loudly with a view to making the speeches inaudible. As the first serious attempt to protect diners from an orgy of oratory this incident deserves recording.
There are One Woman Shows as well as One Man Shows in these days. An invitation to be present at a certain function in connection with a certain charitable institution announces:--
Some surprise is being expressed in non-legal circles that the actress who lost the case which she brought against SANDOW, LIMITED, for depicting her as wearing one of their corsets, did not apply for stays of execution.
PHOTOGRAVURE PRESENTATION PLATE OF
GENERAL BOOTH AND MRS. BRAMWELL BOOTH
LIONS PHOTOGRAPHED AT 5 YARDS' DISTANCE.
Once upon a time Red Indians used to kidnap Whites. Last week, Mrs. W. BOWMAN CUTTER, a wealthy widow of seventy, living at Boston, Massachusetts, eloped with her 21-year-old Red-skin chauffeur.
A memorial to a prize-fighter who was beaten by TOM SAYERS was unveiled at Nottingham last week. Should this idea of doing honour to defeated British heroes spread to those of to-day our sculptors should have a busy time.
A new organisation, called "The League of Wayfarers," has been formed. Its members apparently consist of "child policemen," who undertake to protect wild flowers. How it is going to be done we do not quite understand. Presumably, small boys will hide behind, say, dandelions, and emit a loud roar when anyone tries to pluck the tender plant.
"ASQUITH DENIES MILITANT PLEA.
We are left with the uneasy impression that William is a snob.
Our politicians are right to take it easy this hot weather.
A PATRIOT UNDER FIRE.
Philip, I note with unaffected awe How, with the glass at 90 in the cool, You still obey inflexibly the law That governs manners of the British school; How, in a climate where the sweltering air Seems to be wafted from a kitchen copper, You still refuse to lay aside your wear Of sable .
The Civil Service which you so adorn Would lose its prestige, visibly grown slack, And all its lofty pledges be forsworn Were you to deviate from your boots of black; Were you to shed that coat of sombre dye, That ebon brain-box Whose torrid aspect strikes the passer-by With tertian fever.
As something far beyond me I respect The virtue, equal to the stiffest crux, Which thus forbids your costume to deflect Into the primrose path of straw and ducks; I praise that fine regard for red-hot tape Which calmly and without an eyelid's flutter Suffers the maddening noon to melt your nape As it were butter.
"His clothes are not the man," I freely own, Yet often they express the stuff they hide, As yours, I like to fancy, take their tone From stern, ascetic qualities inside; Just as the soldier's heavy marching-gear Conceals a heart of high determination, Too big, in any temperature, to fear Nervous prostration.
I cite the warrior's case who goes through fire; For you, no less a patriot, face your risk When in your country's service you perspire In blacks that snort at Phoebus' flaming disc; So, till a medal Records your grit and pluck for all to know 'em, I on your chest with safety-pins will set This inky poem.
O. S.
"THE PURPLE LIE."
"Sorry," she replied, "but it's off."
"Off!" I exclaimed indignantly, "when the box-office is being besieged all day by a howling mob, and armoured commissionaires are constantly being put into commission to defend it. Off!"
"What I mean to say is," said Arabella, "that we're dining with the Messington-Smiths to-morrow evening."
"So have I," said Arabella. "It's sickening, but I am afraid we must pass those tickets on."
"Ass!" said Charles, and pocketed the tickets.
On the following morning I perceived a large crinkly frown at the opposite end of the breakfast table, and, rightly divining that Arabella was behind it, asked her what the trouble was.
"It's the Messington-Smiths," she complained. "They can't have us to dinner after all. It seems that Mrs. Messington-Smith has a bad sore throat."
"Any throat would be sore," I replied, "that had Mrs. Messington-Smith talking through it. I wonder whether Charles is using those tickets."
"You might ring up and see."
To step lightly to the telephone, ask for Charles's number, get the wrong one, ask again, find that he had gone to his office, ring him up there and get through to him, was the work of scarcely fifteen minutes. "Charles," I said, "are you using those two stalls of mine to-day?"
"Awfully sorry," he replied, "but I can't go myself. I gave them away yesterday evening."
"Wurzel!" I said. "Who to?"
"To whom," he corrected gently. "To a dull man I met in the City named Messington-Smith."
"Where does he live?"
"21, Morpheus Avenue."
"What number, please?" sang a sweet soprano voice. I rang off, and went to break the news to Arabella.
She was silent for a few moments, and then asked me suddenly, "Whereabouts in the stalls were those seats of ours?"
"Almost in the middle of the third row," I replied mournfully.
Arabella said no more, but with a rather disdainful smile on her face walked firmly to her little escritoire, sat down, wrote a note, and addressed it to Mrs. Messington-Smith.
"What have you said?" I asked, as she stamped her letter with a rather vicious jab on KING GEORGE'S left eye.
"No," she said, "and as a matter of fact I don't suppose the Messington-Smiths are either--now."
I left Arabella smiling triumphantly through her tears, but when I returned in the evening the breakfast-time frown had reappeared with even crinklier ramifications.
"Why," I asked, "are you looking like a tube map?"
"Mrs. Messington-Smith," she answered with a slight catch in her voice, "has just been telephoning."
"I thought the receiver looked a bit played out," I said. "What does she want with us now?"
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