I'm much obligated for that there _St. James's Gazette_
As you sent me larst Satterday's post. I 'ave read it with hintrest,
you bet;
Leastways, more pertikler the harticle writ on "yours truly," dear
boy;
Wich the paper is one as a gent who is reelly a gent can enjoy.
_I_ shall paternize it with much pleasure; it's steep, but it's
puffect good form.
Seems smart at the "ground" and the "lofty," _and_ makes it
tremenjusly warm
For WILLYUM the Woodchopper. Scissors! His name's _never_ orf of their
lips.
Wy, it's worth a fair six _d_ a week jest to see 'em a slating Old
Chips!
Proves as 'ARRY is well to the front wen sech higperlite pens pop on
_him_,
Does me proud and no herror, dear pal; shows we're both in the same
bloomin' swim.
Still, they don't cop my phiz _quite_ ker-rect; they know GLADSTONE
right down to the ground;
But _I_ ain't quite so easy 'it off, don'tcher see, if you take me all
round.
Old Collars is simple as lyin', becos he's _all_ bad, poor old 'ack,
And you can't be fur out in his portrait as long as you slop on the
black.
But I'm quite another guess sort; penny plain, tuppence coloured, yer
see,
May do all very well for the ruck; but they'll find it won't arnser
for me!
I'm a daisy, dear boy, and no 'eeltaps! I wish the _St. James's_ young
man
Could drop into my diggings permiskus; he's welcome whenever he can;
For he isn't no J., that's a moral; I don't bear no malice; no fear!
But I'd open 'is hoptics a mossel concernin' my style and my spere.
The essence of 'ARRY, he sez, is high sperrits. _That_ ain't so fur
out.
I'm "Fiz," not four 'arf, my dear feller. Flare-up is my motter, no
doubt.
Carn't set in a corner canoodling, and do the Q. T. day and night.
My mug, mate, was made for a larf, and you don't ketch it pulling a
kite.
So fur all serene; but this joker, I tell yer, runs slap orf the track
Wen he says that my togs and my talk are "the fashion of sev'ral years
back."
The slang of the past is my patter--_mine_, CHARLIE, he sez! Poor
young man!
If _I_ carn't keep upsides with the cackle of snide 'uns, dear
CHARLIE, who _can_?
Wot _is_ slang, my dear boy, that's the question. The mugs and the
jugs never joke,
Never gag, never work in a wheeze; no, their talk is all skilly and
toke,
'Cos they ain't got no bloomin' hinvention; they keeps to the old line
of rails,
With about as much "go" as a Blue Point, about as much rattle as
snails.
MAVOR'S Spellin' and Copybook motters is all they can run to. But
slang?
Wy, it's simply smart patter, of wich ony me and my sort 'as the 'ang.
Snappy snideness put pithy, my pippin, the pick of the _chick_ and the
hodd,
And it fettles up talk, my dear CHARLIE, like 'ot hoyster sauce with
biled cod.
"Swell vernacular"? _Swells_ don't invent it; they nick it from hus,
and no kid.
Did a swell ever start a new wheeze? Would it 'ave any run if he did?
Let the ink-slingers trot out _their_ kibosh, and jest see 'ow flabby
it falls.
Bet it won't raise a grin at the bar, bet it won't git a 'and at the
'Alls.
And fancy _my_ slang being stale, CHARLIE! Gives me the needle, that
do.
In course I've been in it for years, mate, and mix up the old and the
new;
But if the _St. James's_ young gentleman fancies hisself on this lay,
I'll "slang" him for glasses all round, him whose patter fust fails
'im to pay.
Then he sez, "'ARRY'S always a Londoner." Shows 'ARRY ain't no bad
judge.
"Wot the crockerdile is to the Nile 'ARRY is to the Thames." Well,
that's fudge.
_That's_ a ink-slinger's try-on at patter. Might jest as well call me
a moke.
Try another, young man; this is kibosh purtending to pass for a joke.
Wen he sez my god's "go,"--well he's 'it it. Great Scott! wot is life
without "go"?
But "loud, slangy, vulgar"? No, 'ang it, young man, this is--well,
there, it's _low_.
_Me_ vulgar! a Primroser, CHARLIE, a true "Anti-Radical" pot!
No, excuse me, St. J., I admire you; but this is all dashed tommy-rot.
Stale, too, orful stale, my young josser. It's wot all the
soap-crawlers say,
If a party 'as "go" and "high sperrits"--percise wot you praise me
for, hay?--
If he "can laugh aloud," as you say I can, better than much finer
folk,
Will you ticket 'im "vulgar," _for doin' it?_ Oh, you go 'ome and eat
coke!
Leastways I don't mean that exackly; I like you too well; you're my
sort;
But you ain't took my measure kerrect, I'm a Tory, a patriot, a
"sport."
So wy should _you_ round on me thusly? I call it a little mite mean.
If I took and turned Radical now; but oh! no, 'ARRY isn't so green.
'Owsomever in one thing you've nicked me. No marriage
for 'ARRY, sez you.
O, right you are, chummie! I'm single, you bet, though I'm turned
twenty-two,
And I've 'ad lots o' chances, I tell yer; fair 'ot 'uns, old man, and
no kid.
But I'll 'ave a free run for _my_ money, as long as I'm good for a
quid.
Yah! Marriage is orful queer paper; it's fatal, dear boy, as you say,
It damps down the rortiest dasher, it spiles yer for every prime lay.
No; gals is good fun, wives wet blankets, that's wot my egsperience
tells,
And the swells foller me on that track, though _you_ say as I follers
the swells.
Wot odds arter all? We're jest dittos! I'm not bad at bottom, sez you.
Well, thankye for nothink, my joker. As long as I've bullion to blue,
I mean to romp round a rare buster, lark, lap, take the pick of the
fun,
And, bottom or top, good or bad, keep my heye on one mark--Number One!
There, CHARLIE, that's 'ow I should answer my criticks. They ain't
nicked me yet,
Not even the pick o' the basket, 'im of the _St. James's Gazette_.
He's not a bad sort though, I reckon. Laugh, lark, cut a dash, never
marry!
Yus, it only want's my fillin' in to make that a fair photo, of
'ARRY.
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