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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 15, 1892   By:

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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.

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... Continue reading book >>


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