PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

DEAR CHARLIE,—The post-mark, no doubt, will surprise you. I'm still at the "Crown,"

Though I said in my last—wot wos true—I was jest on the mizzle for town.

'Ad a letter from nunky, old man, with another small cheque. Good old nunk!

So I'm in for a fortnit' more sulphur and slosh, afore doing a bunk.

Ah! I've worked it, my pippin, I've worked it; gone in for hexcursions all round,

To Knaresborough, Bolton, and Fountains. You know, dear old pal, I'll be bound,

As hantiquities isn't my 'obby, and ruins don't fetch me, not much!

I can't see their "beauty," no more than the charms of some dowdy old Dutch.

A Castle, all chunnicks of stone, or a Habbey, much out of repair,

A skelinton Banquetting 'All, and a bit of a broken-down stair,

May appear most perticular "precious" to them as the picteresk cops;

But give me the sububs and stucco, smart villas, and spick-and-span shops.

"Up to date" is our siney quay non in these days. Fang der sickle, yer know.

Wich is French for the same, I persoom, and them phrases is now all the go.

Find 'em sprinkled all over the papers; in politics, fashion, or art,

If you carnt turn 'em slick round yer tongue, you ain't modern, or knowing, or smart.

Still a houting to Bolton ain't bad when the charry-bang's well loaded up

With swell seven-and-sixpence-a-headers. I felt like a tarrier-pup

On the scoop arter six weeks of kennel and drench in the 'ands of a vet;

I'd got free of the brimstoney flaviour and went it accordin', you bet!

'Ad a day at a village called Birstwith. The most tooralooralest scene,

'Oiler down among 'ills, dontcher know, ancient trees and a jolly big green.

Reglar old Rip-van-Winkleish spot, sech as CALDECOTT ought to ha' sketched.

Though I ain't noways nuts on the pastoral, even Yours Truly wos fetched.

Pooty sight and no error, old pal! 'Twos a grand "Aughticultural Show,"

So the "Progrum of Sports" told the public. Fruit, flowers, and live poultry, yer know.

Big markee and a range of old 'en-coops, sports, niggers, a smart local band,

Cottage gardemn', cheese, roosters, and races! Rum mix, but I gave it a 'and.

I do like to hencourage the joskins. One thing though, wos fiddle-de-dee,

They 'ad a "Refreshment Tent," CHARLIE. 'Oh my! Ginger-ale and weak tea!

Nothink stronger, old pal, s'elp me bob! Fancy me flopping down on a form

A-munching plum-putty, and lapping Bohea as wos not even warm!

This 'ere 'Arrygate's short of amusements. There's niggers and bands on the "Stray"

(Big lumpy old field in a 'ole, wich if properly managed might pay.)

Mysterious Minstrels with masks on, a bleating contralto in black,

With a orful tremoler, my pippin!—yus, these are the pick of the pack.

Bit sick of "Ta-ra-ra" and "Knocked 'em;" "Carissimar" gives me the 'ump,

For I 'ear it some six times per morning; and then there's a footy old pump

Blows staggery toons on a post-'orn for full arf a-hour each day,

To muster the mugs for a coach-drive. My heye and a bandbox, it's gay!

At the "Crown" we git up little barnies, to eke out the 'Arrygate lot,

For even the Spa's a bit samesome for six times a week when it's 'ot;

Though they do go it pooty permiskus with pickter-shows, concerts, and such;

Yus, I must say they ladles it out fair and free, for a sixpenny touch.

But even yer Fancy Dress Balls, and yer lectures by ANNIE BESANT,

All about Hastral Bodies and Hether, seems not always quite wot yer want

To wile away time arter dinner. So thanks to that gent—six-foot-four!—

Who fair cuts the record as Droring-Room M.C.—of course hammytoor.

Then we've conjurors, worblers, phrenologists! One 'ad a go at my chump.

'E touzled my 'air up tremenjus, and said I'd no hend of a bump

Of somethink he called "Happrybativeness." Feller meant well, I suppose,

But I didn't quite relish his smile, nor his rummy remarks on my nose.

When a tall gurl as pooty as paint, and with cheeks like a blush—rose in bloom,

'As 'er lamps all a-larf on yer face, and a giggle goes round the whole room,

'Tisn't nice to sit square on a chair, with a feller a-sharpening 'is wit

On your nob, and a rumpling your 'air till it's like a birch-broom in a fit!

One caper we 'ad, on the lawn, wos a spree and no error, old man.

They call it a "Soap-Bubble Tournyment." Soapsuds, a pipe, and a fan,

Four six—foot posts stuck in the ground with a tape run around—them's the "props,"

And lawn-tennis ain't in it for larks. Oh, the ladies did larf, though tip-tops!

Bit sniffy fust off. "Oh!" sez they, "wot a most hintellectual game!"

But I noticed that them as sneered most wos most anxious to win, all the same,

The gent he stands slap in the middle, and tries to blow bubbles like fun,

Wich his pardner fans over the tape; don't it jest keep the girls on the run!

Every bubble as crosses the tape afore busting counts one to that pair,

And the pair as counts most wins the prize. They are timed by a hegg-boiler. There!

It wos all a pantermime, CHARLIE, to see 'ow them gurls scooted round,

Jest like Japanese jugglers, a-fanning the bubbles, as would 'ug the ground.

Some gents wos fair frosts at the bizness; one good-'earted trim little toff

Would blow with the bowl wrong end uppards. His pardner went pink and flounced off.

He gurgled away like a babe with a pap-bottle, guggle—gug—gug!

And I 'eard 'er a-giving 'im beans as 'e mizzled, much down in the mug.

Owsomever, it ain't for amusements as 'Arrygate lays itself hout;

So, dear boy, it's for doses and douches; and there it scores freely, no doubt,

Wy, there's thirty-two Springs in the Bog Field—a place like a graveyard gone wrong—

Besides Starbeck, the Tewit, and others, all narsty, and most on 'em strong.

Since Sir SLINGSBY discovered the first one, now close on three cent'ries ago,

Wot a lush of mixed mineral muck these 'ere 'Arrygate Springs 'ave let flow!

Well, ere's bully for Brimstone, my bloater, and 'ooray for 'Arrygate air!

Wich 'as done me most good I don't know, and I'm scorched if I very much care!

I know 'Arrygate girls cop the biscuit for beauty. They've cheeks like the rose,

Their skin is jest strorberries and cream; it's the sulphur, dear boy, I suppose.

As for me, I look yaller as taller alongside 'em CHARLIE, wus luck!

I 'eard one call me saffron-faced sparrer, and jest as I thought 'er fair struck.

I'd nail 'em, in