Dear Charlie,—'Ow are you, old shipmate? I've bin layin' low for a time.

'Ard years these 'ere Nineties, my nibs, yus, and bizness 'as bin fur from prime.

All grind and no gay galoot, Charlie, of late 'as bin my little lot;

An' between you and me and the post, I think most things is going to pot!

It's Newness wot's doing it, Charlie! "Lor! that's a rum gospel," sez you.

Well, p'raps in your green tooral-looral you don't hear so much of the New;

But in town with New Art, and New Women, New Drammer, New Humour, and such,

There seems nothink old left in creation, save four-arf, and Dannel's old Dutch.

She's old, and no hapricots, Charlie. But Dannel's a decentish sort,

And the way as she lays down the law about up-to-date woman is sport.

'Er nutcrackers clitter and clatter; and when she is fair on the shout,

Concernin' fresh feminine fashions, you bet it's a reglar knock-out!

I took Lil, Dannel's youngest, larst week to the play, with some tickets I'd got.

Well, paperers mustn't be choosers. But oh, mate, of all the dashed rot

They ever chucked over the footlights, this 'ere Probblem Play wos the wust!

It left me with brain discumfuddled, the blues, and a thundering thust.

It gave poor Lil 'Arris the 'orrors. "Lor, 'Arry," she sez, coming out,

"They've styged it, no doubt, tol-lol-poppish, but wot is the 'ole thing about?

I feel just as creepy and 'oller, along o' these 'ere warmed-up ghosts,

As if I'd bin dining on spiders. Eugh! Let's 'ave a glarss at 'The Posts.'"

It took two 'ot tiddleys to warm 'er. An' when I was blowin' a cloud

A-top o' the tram going 'ome, she sez, "'Arry," sez she, "I ain't proud,

But don't tyke me never no more to no New Woman nonsense," sez she.

"It's narsty; and not one good snivel or larf in the whole jamboree.

"I don't call them people, I don't." "No; they're probblems, Lil, that's wot they are.

She-probblem a tearin' 'er 'air, whilst the he-probblem sucks 'is cigar;

Two gurl-probblems sniffing at Marriage, that played-out old farce—at sixteen!—

I thought we was fair up-to-date, Lil, but, bless yer, we're simply pea-green!"

And when we arrived at Lamb's Conduit Street, old Dannel 'Arris's shop,

His old Dutch got fair on the grind, and when started she's orkud to stop.

"New Woman?" sez she. "She's no clarss, Lil, and don't know a mite where she are.

Yah! We used to call 'em Old Cats; and a sootabler name, too, by far.

"There ain't nothink new in their Newness; it's only old garbige warmed up.

Mere bubble-and-squeak. The stale taters and greens on which poor people sup

Is 'olesome compared with sich offal. Yah! Weddings'll outlast that lot;

And while gals is gals the old Eve'll jest make the new evil seem rot."

The jawsome old guffin wos right, Charlie; leastways, she wosn't fur out.

Yer female footballers and bikers, as swagger and go on the shout,

And spile a good sport and their hancles, are not more complete off the track

Than them as "revolt"—agin Nature, and cock their she-bokos—at fack!

All splutter-sludge, Charlie! On styge or on cinder-path, sillypop things

As want to play Man and be Woman are trying to fly without wings,

Or fight without fistes. Are Men, the world's masters—like you, mate, and Me—

To be knocked out by probblems in petticoats? Wot bloomin' fiddle-de-dee!

The Old Dutch, and young Lil, and myself are all much of a mind on this job.

Old 'Arris sez men are not in it. He don't mean it, I'll bet a bob.

It ain't very likely, not now, that Yours Scrumptiously ever will marry;

But if I should tyke a Old Woman, it won't be no New Woman!

'Arry.