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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
"I thought the receiver looked a bit played out," I said. "What does she want with us now?"
"But the tickets," I gasped.
She broke off and gave a lachrymose little sniff.
"And what?"
"And she knew, of course, that we're disengaged to-night, and when she got my letter she was just going to send them round to us."
L.C.C. TRAM. "HARD LINES ON ME!"
MOTOR-'BUS. "YES, IT'S ALWAYS HARD LINES WITH YOU, MY BOY. THAT'S WHAT'S THE MATTER; YOU CAN'T SIDE-STEP."
"OH, THAT'S MR. BINKS. HE TAKES THE PLATE ROUND IN CHURCH, YOU KNOW."
From a testimonial:--
When we tell you that the mystic letters mean "married couple," you will share our horror.
WOMAN AT THE FIGHT.
In ancient unsophisticated days Women were valued for their cloistered ways. And won at Rome encouragement from man Only because they stayed at home and span; While PERICLES in Attic Greek expressed The view that those least talked about were best. There were exceptions, but the normal Greek Regarded SAPPHO as a dangerous freak, And CLYTEMNESTRA for three thousand years Was pelted with unmitigated sneers, Till RICHARD STRAUSS and HOFMANNSTHAL combined To prove that she was very much maligned.
ONCE UPON A TIME.
THE SUSCEPTIBLE AMERICAN.
Once upon a time there was a beautiful singer named Miss Iris Bewlay. Every now and then she gave a recital, and it was always crowded. She was chosen to sing "God save the King" at bazaars and Primrose League meetings; her rendering of "Home, Sweet Home" moistened every eye. Hostesses wishing to be really in the swim engaged her to sing during after-dinner conversation for enormous fees.
When Miss Iris Bewlay was approaching the forties and adding every day to her wealth, another Miss Bewlay--not Iris, but Gladys, and no relation whatever--was gradually improving her gift of song with a well-known teacher, for it was Miss Gladys Bewlay's intention, with her parents' strong approval, to become a professional. She had not, it is true, her illustrious namesake's commanding presence or powerful register, but her voice was sweet and refined and she might easily have a future.
It happened that a susceptible music-loving American staying in London for a short time was taken by some English friends to a concert at which Miss Iris Bewlay was singing, and he fell at once a victim to her tones. Never before had he heard a voice which so thrilled and moved him. He returned to his hotel enraptured, and awoke with but one desire and that was to hear Miss Bewlay again.
"Say, where is a Miss Bewlay singing to-night?" he asked the hotel porter.
The porter searched all the concert announcements, but found no mention of the great name. In the end he advised a visit to one of the ticket libraries, and off the enthusiast hurried.
"Say, can you tell me where Miss Bewlay is singing to-night?" he said.
The clerk having no information, the susceptible American was turning away when the guest of the other Bewlay family ventured to address him with the information that Miss Bewlay was singing that evening at a private gathering at one of the halls.
"Couldn't I get in?" the American asked.
"It's private," said the lady. "It's only for the friends of the family."
"Let me take down the address, anyway," said he, and took it down.
That evening, just before Miss Gladys Bewlay's first song, a visiting card was handed to one of her brothers, with the statement that a gentleman desired the pleasure of a moment's interview on a matter of great importance.
"See here," said the gentleman, and it was none other than the susceptible American, "I'm just crazy about Miss Bewlay's singing. They tell me she's here to-night. Now I know it's a strange thing to ask, but I want to know if you can't just let me lean against a pillar somewhere at the back while she's singing, and then I'll go right away. It's my last chance for some time, you see. I go back to America to-morrow."
When she had finished the American approached one of the guests and begged to be told the name of the singer.
"Miss Bewlay," said the guest. "It's her first appearance to-night."
"Miss Bewlay," gasped the American. "Then there are two of them. You say this is her first appearance?"
"Yes."
"Then she's very young?"
"Only about twenty."
The American returned to his corner, and the second song began.
Whatever disappointment his ears may have suffered it would have been obvious to close observers that his eyes were contented enough. They rested on the fair young singer with delight and admiration, and when she had finished there was no applause like the susceptible American's.
When Miss Bewlay's brother had gradually worked his way to the back of the room, he found the American in an ecstasy.
"She's great," he said. "Say, would it be too much to ask you to introduce me?"
"Not at all," said the brother, who was as pleased at his sister's success as though it were his own.
The American did not return to his own country the next day, nor for many days after; and when he did he was engaged to Miss Gladys Bewlay.
Isn't that a pretty fairy story? and almost every word of it is true.
A SEASIDE "SONG SCENA."
Bertie Weston, wearing a uniform resembling that of a Patagonian Vice-Admiral, advanced mincingly to the footlights, and the six others, similarly attired, ranged themselves in a row behind him. Behind these again dropped a back-cloth representing a stone balustrade, blue hills and fleecy clouds.
There was a burst of warm applause, in response to which Bertie politely bowed his thanks. Without further preliminary he commenced--
The crescent moon on high Is shining in the sky.
Here the six turned up their faces and gazed pensively at the heavens , at the same time resting their chins on their right hands and their right elbows on their left hands.
Here the six ceased to regard the sky, split into pairs and by pantomimic gesture invited one another to wander.
Across the hills we'll go, While birds sing soft and low,
The singer paused for an instant, while the six, now formed into a semicircle, hummed together softly a suggestion of distant nightingales. Not an imitation--that would be too banal--but a suggestion. In point of fact I thought I detected the air of "The Little Grey Home in the West."
While the silver moon adorns the summer sky.
After a brief pause, brightened by what are vulgarly termed twiddly bits on the piano, the soloist sang the chorus, softly and appealing, with a sort of treacly intonation:--
Moon, moon, moon, We'll come soon, soon, Across the hills while all the world is dreaming. Moon, moon, moon, I'd like to swoon, swoon,
The heads of the six drooped listlessly and their hands fell languidly to their sides; their eyes closed.
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