Title:  Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, October 15, 1892

Author:  Various

Editor:  Francis Burnand

Release Date:  March 24, 2005 [EBook #15453]

Language:  English

Character set encoding:  ASCII

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PUNCH,

Or the London charivari.

Vol. 103.

October 15, 1892.

’ARRY at ’Arrygate.

(SECOND LETTER.)

[Illustration]

  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.