Now for Lonnon. No Sanderses—no Richardsens no wumwills menageris no backy boxis to shy for—no lucky Boxis. No poster makin no jugling or Dancing. Prest one yung laidy in ruge cheaks and trowsers verry civelly For a bit of a caper on the tite rop—But miss got on the hi rop, and call’d for a conestubble. Askt annother in a ridding habbit for the faver of a little horsemunship and got kicked out of her Booth. Goos Grean for my munny! Saw a yung laidy there that swallerd a Sord and wasn’t too Partickler to jump threw a hoop. Dutchesses look dull after that at a Fare. Verry dignified, but Prefer the Wax Wurk, as a Show. Dont sea anny think in Watch Pappers cut out by Countisses that have been born with all their harms and legs—not Miss Biffins.
FANCY FAIRINGS.
Must say one thing for Goos Grean. Never got my pockit pict xcept at Lonnon—am sorry to say lost my Reader and Ticker and every Dump I had let alone a single sovran. And lost the best part of that besides to a Yung Laidy that nevver gave change. Greenish enuf says you for my Tim of Day but I was gammund by the baggidge to bye five shillin Pin Cushins. Wish Charrity had stayd at Hoam! The ould Mare got a coald by waiting outside. And the five Charrity pincushins hadn’t bran enuf in their hole boddys to make her a Mash.
Am told the Hospittle don’t clear anny grate proffits after all is dun and Like enuff. A Fare should be a Fare and fokes at Room oght to do as Room does. Have a notion Peeressis that keep Booths wood take moor Munny if they wasn’t abuv having the dubble drums and speakin trumpets and gongs. There’s nothin like goin the hole Hog!
Shall be happy, sur, to sea You at Goos Green next Fare and pint out the Difference. Maybe in Flurtashun and Matchmacking and getting off Dorters along with the dolls we ar a littel cut out, but for Ginuen Fancy and Fun and Fair Play its a mear Green Goos to Goos Green.
Remain Sur,
Your humbel tu command,
JACOB GILES.
P.S. Think Vallintins day wood be a Good fixter for next Fancy Fare. Shan’t say why. Sniff sumthing of the kind going on amung our hone Gals—Polly as just begd a sak of bran and she dont keap rabits. Pincushins and nothin else. Tother day cum across a large Watchpokit and suspect Mrs. G is at the Bottom of it. No churnin butter, no packin egs, no setten Hens and crammin Turkis—All sniping ribbins folding papper sowin up satten and splitting hole trusses of straw. Am blest if its for litterin down Horsis. Dont no how its all to be got to markit at Lonnon, the nine Gals and all ’xcept its by a Pickfurd Van.