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. 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 time, I've no doubt, when I once got the 'ang of
their style.
There's a gal at the Montpellier Baths. Scissoree! 'ow I've tried
for a smile,
When she tips me my tannersworth! Shucks! she's as orty and stiff
as yer please.
Primrose Dames isn't in it for snubs with these arrygant
'Arrygatese!
But I reckon my "Douche" is now due. Doctor BLACK's that
pertikler, old man.
These 'Arrygate doctors 'ave progrums--you've got to pan out to
their plan.
Up early, two swigs afore breakfust, and tubs when they tell yer's
the rule.
Well, the feller as flies to a Sawbones, and _don't_ toe the line
is a fool.
Reglar Doctor-Shop, 'Arrygate is; see their photos all over the
town.
Mine is doing me dollups of good; I'm quite peckish, and jest a
bit brown.
I'm making the most of my time, and a-laying in all I can carry.
So 'ere ends this budget of brimstone and baths from your
sulphur-soaked
'ARRY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FROG HE WOULD A-ROWING GO!