'ARRY IN VENICE.
DEAR CHARLIE,—'Ow 'ops it, my 'earty? Yours truly's still stived up in Town.
Won't run to a 'oliday yet, mate. I'm longing to lay on the brown
By a blow from the briny, but, bless yer, things now is as bad as they're made.
Hinfluenzas, Helections, and cetrer, has bloomin' nigh bunnicked up Trade.
My screw's bin cut down by a dollar; along of 'ard times, sez our bloke.
I did mean doin' It'ly this year; but sez Luck, "Oh, go 'ome and eat coke!"
Leastways, that's as I hunderstand 'er. A narsty one, Luck, and no kid;
Always gives yer the rough of 'er tongue when you're quisby, or short of a quid.
When I 'eard about Venice in London, I thinks to myself, mate, thinks I,
'Ere's a 'oliday tour on the cheap! 'Ere's a barney as 'ARRY must try.
No Continong this year, that's certain, old man, for the likes of poor me;
But whilst I've a bob I've a chance for a boss at the Bride o' the Sea.
Them posters of IMRE KIRALFY's for gorgeousness quite takes the cake.
Friend IMRE's a spanker, you bet, and quite fly to the popular fake.
"Stupendious work," IMRE calls it, and I.K. is O.K. no doubt.
Your old Country Fair Show takes a back seat when ikey young I.K.'s about.
Oh, the jam and the mustard, my pippin, the crimsing, the blue, and the gold!
Scissorree, CHARLIE, rainbows ain't in it, and prisums is out in the cold.
I do like a picteresk poster, as big as a bloomin' back yard,
With the colour slopped on quite regardless; if that ain't 'Igh 'Art, wy it's 'ard.
'Owsomever I mustn't feeloserphise. Off to Olympia I 'ooks,
To see Venice the Bride of the Sea, as set forth in them sixpenny books.
Bless his twirly merstache, he's a twicer, this IMRE KIRALFY, dear boy,
And he give me a two hours' spektarkle old LEIGHTON hisself might enjoy.
Bit puzzling the "Pageant" is, CHARLIE, until that Synopsis you've read;
Wish I'd mugged it all up overnight; but I carn't get it straight in my 'ead.
Sort o' mixture of Shylock and BYRON, with bits of Othello chucked in,
Muddled up with "Chioggian wars," as seemed mostly blue fire and bright tin.
But the scenes wos 'splendiferous, CHARLIE. About arf a mile o' stage front,
With some thousands of 'eroes and supers, as seemed all the time on the 'unt.
Lor! 'ow they did scoot up and down that there stage at the double, old man,
All their legs on the waggle, like flies, and their armour a-chink as they ran!
Old Shylock turns up quite permiskus, and always upon the full trot;
He seemed mixed up with Portias, and Doges, smart gals, and the dickens knows wot.
All kep waving their arms like mad semy-phores, doin' the akrybat prank,
As if they was swimming in nothink, or 'ailing a 'bus for the Bank.
I sez to a party beside me, "Old man, wot the doose does it mean?"
Sez he, "A dry attic, yer know, of wich Venice, yer see, wos the Queen.
That cove in a nightcap's the Doge; for an old 'un he can move about.
They had G.O.M.'s, mate, in Venice; of that there is not the least doubt.
"That's VETTORE PISANI, the Hadmiral; t'other is General ZENO
Defending the State, I persoom, and they're 'aving a fust-class old beano.
Wy PEDRO THE SECOND, of Cyprus, and Portia is made a rum blend
With Turps Siccory's Revels, and so on, no doubt we shall twig at the hend."
I sez, "Thankee! that's werry instructive. You do know a lot, mate, you do!"
Then the fight at Chioggia came on. Sech a rum pully-haully all through.
But the Victory Percession wos proper, and so was the All Frisky feet,
And the way as they worked the gondolers, them streaky-legged chaps, wos a treat.
But the best o' the barney came arter. I took a gondoler, old man,
Sort o' wobbly black coffin afloat, and perpelled on the rummiest plan
With one oar and a kind of notched post. But a dressy young party in pink
'Ad a seat in my ship, and seemed skeery. I cheered 'er up—wot do you think?
"No danger," sez I, "not a mossel! Now is there, old lollipop-legs?
Sit 'ere, Miss, and trim the old barky! Go gently now, young 'Am-and-Eggs!
'Ow much for yer mustard-striped kicksies? Way-oh! Wy, you nearly run down
The Ryhalto that time, you young josser. Look hout, Miss, he'll crack your sweet crown!"
Larf, CHARLIE? She did a fair chortle. I 'ave sech a way with the shes.
We 'ad six sixpennorths together—I tell you 'twos go-as-you-please!
Modern Venice, took out of a toy-box, with palaces fourteen foot 'igh.
And Bridges o' Sighs cut in pasteboard, is larks all the same, and no fly.
Sort o' cosy romanticky feeling a-paddling along them canals,
With the manderlines twangling all round, and the larf of the gayest of gals
Gurgling up through the Hightalian hair—though it do 'ave a cockneyfied sniff,—
Wy it's better than spooning at Marlow with MOLLY MOLLOY in a skiff.
I felt like Lord BYRON, I tell yer; I stretched myself, orty-like, hout,
And wished it could go on all night, wich my pardner did ditto, no doubt.
Modern Venice in minichure, CHARLIE, ain't really so dusty, you bet;
I wos quite a Bassanio in breeks, and I ain't lost the twang of it yet.
My Portia wos POLLY MARIA; she tipped me her name fair and free;
And a pootier young mossel o' muslin, I never 'ad perch on my knee.
No side on 'er, nothink lowlived, CHARLIE, ladylike down to the ground,
I called 'er my fair "Bride of Venice." In fact, we wos 'appy all round.
She said I wos 'er form to a hounce, and if anyone looked more O.K.,
In a nobby Gondoler than me, well that chap 'adn't travelled 'er way;
Wich wos Barnsbury Park—so she whispered, with sech a sly giggle, dear boy!
I sez "Bully for IMRE KIRALFY! His Show is a thing to henjoy!"
And so it is, CHARLIE, old hoyster. The music is twangly, I own,
And if I've a fancy myself, 'taint hexactly the Great Xylophone;
But the speeches of musical scratch-backs the dancers keep time with so pat,
In that fairy-like Carnival Bally, fetched POLLY, ah, all round 'er 'at!
That 'at wos a spanker, I tell yer; as big as the Doge's State-Barge,
And like all the "Four Seasons" in one! "Well," sez POLLY, "I do like 'em large,
Them Venetian pork-pies ain't my fancy, no room for no trimmings above.
They wouldn't suit Barnsbury Park, though they might do 'The Castle of Love'!"
Sort o' needled her somehow, I fancy; but, bless yer, I soon put that straight.
Gals is wonderful touchy on togs! Covent Garden piled high on a plate
With a blue hostrich-feather all round it, mayn't be man's hidea of a tile,
But I flattered her taste a rare bat, and soon 'ad her again on the smile.
Well, "Venice the Bride of the Sea," is wuth more than one visit, old pal,
And I've got a hengagement next week to go there with the same pooty gal.
I'm going to read up the subjeck, I'll cram for it all I can carry,
For I'm bound to be fair, in the know if young POLLY should question
Yours, 'ARRY.