Life, 1907-08-29 · page 9 of 24
Life — August 29, 1907 — page 9: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a humorous letter titled "English as She Is Spoke—In London," presented as correspondence from Sir Reginald Broome Bexenbury to Major Ponsonby Marr-Cavendish, dated Ladies' Day, 1907. The accompanying engraving depicts a crowded pleasure boat packed with passengers, illustrating the letter's satirical commentary on London leisure activities. The writer humorously complains about English social life—specifically the cramped, unpleasant conditions at popular entertainment venues like theaters and pubs where the narrator encounters various colorfully-named characters (Lemeson-Thallet, Jack Strathcona, etc.). The satire mocks both English social pretensions and the discomforts of crowded public amusements, using the boat image as a visual joke about the packed, chaotic nature of fashionable London society outings.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“SEEING NEWPORT” English as She Is Spoke—In London A Letter from Sir Reginald Browne Browne Bunbury to Major Ponsonby Marr-Cavendish Lonpox, Lapres’ Day, 1907, Tne Corr 00M, SKINDLE’S. ‘AR OLD Ponsy: I reached here Boxing Day and I shall stop on—if the wife im proves—until Michaelmas. I am going strong, haven’t funked the fences and only wish that you could drop in for a chin-chin at tiffin time. Not an earthly, I fear? Iam jolly well in the heart of Lendon, rather decently bunked and fairish shops all about me—poulterers, drapers, sauce warehousemen, cowkeepers, meat pas- trymen and turbot venders. London is a bit misty, but I’m for it, my word I am. I enjoy messing about on the ’dilly and it’s all beastly jolly and most awfully rip- ping, tho’ the bally fog is a bit of a facer for me. I do myself most awtully well and all for ten quid a week (including the twee- nie, the keep of the gee-gee, and the screw for the typist and the groom of the chambers). ‘There are capital pubs all about me here: The Civet Cat, The Running Footman, The Maid’s Hand, The Slip Inn, The Ship and Turtle and the Cheshire Cheese. A chap is always sure of a good mug of bitter before tumbling to by-by. Tuesday week I hailed a four-wheel fly, got me a pipe—went to the booking office at His Majesty’s—was chivvied about a bit on the queen and bought me cight goodish stalls on the gangway, well in the front of the pit. I took a few pals play—after a stiff dinner. No one dy Ermentrude, the Hon. Hermi- one Wemyss (a quite too delightful flap- per) and little Muriel Finn-Douglas (the Warwickshire lot), Jack Strathcona (our old pal of the Queen’s Own), poor dear Pritch of the Guards, and a bounder sort of rotter named Lemeson-Thallet, of Boodles (not of the Turf—that would be his brother!). The poor chap tried hard not to bound, but try as he would he would bound a bit. After the play we had cigarettes and lemon-squash in the rab- bit-hutch at the Savoy, took a room, and had a hack at bridge. (I haven't chucked it yet, you see!) Old Thallet for hav ing it guineas, but I thought of Vi and the mater, and we finally settled on a bob a point and a pony on the rubber. Know ing how rotten they were (and with Pritch more than half drunk) I thought it was a sitter! Right I was, too! As good luck would have it, in the very last game I went a diamond and bagged six be-cards along with twelve golden “sufferings” of the brightest and. best. A little bit of all right, ch? Thallet was fearfully cut up! What an appalling rum ’un he is. He tried to pre- tend that he had all along been rotting about the stakes and meant to pay in pen- nies. To make matters worse, he gave me a stumer cheque. Sickening bad taste I call it, eh? My chambers aren’t half nasty. I have a private jar of marmalade, a tin tub, rip- ping bloaters, kippers, and all that sort of muck. Now and again I get some mar- comicbooks.com