"You! And who may you be?"
"Not know me, Mr. Punch? Why, that is a good one!"
Then the First Gentleman in the World, who has appropriately been called the "pink," not to say the rose (of courtesy), recognised a well-known contributor to his pages. He gave this admirable type of a race that has its exponents in every country under the sun some excellent advice, and suggested that they might part company with mutual advantage.
"My good friend," said Mr. Punch, "I am quite aware that you are in the habit of corresponding with an intimate known as 'Charlie.' Oblige me with a duplicate of your next letter, and it shall be immortalised." It will be seen that Mr. Punch has kept his word.
SWEETNESS AND LIGHT.
| 'ARRY IN SWITZERLAND. Dear Charlie,—You heard as I'd left good old England agen, I'll be bound. Not for Parry alone, mate, this time—I've bin doing the Reglar Swiss Round. Mong Blong, Mare de Glass, and all that, Charlie—guess it's a sight you'd enjoy To see 'Arry, the Hislington Masher, togged out as a Merry Swiss Boy. 'Tis a bit of a stretch from the "Hangel," a jolly long journey by rail, But I made myself haffable like; I'd got hup on the toppingest scale; Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, I can tell yer, old chap; And the way as the passengers stared at me showed I wos fair on the rap. Talk of hups and downs, Charlie! North Devon I found pooty steep, as you know, But wot's Lynton roads to the Halps, or the Torrs to that blessed Young Frow? I got 'andy with halpenstocks, Charlie, and never came much of a spill; But I think, arter all, that, for comfort, I rayther prefer Primrose 'Ill. But that's entry nous, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper out 'ere. 'Arry never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel,—no fear! When I slipped down a bloomin' crevassy, I did do a bit of a 'owl, On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a cat on the prowl. Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie—Guide swore 'twas all my hown fault, Cos I would dance, and sing too-ral-li-ety, arter he'd hordered a halt. Awful gonophs, them Guides, and no herror; they don't know their place, not a mite, And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I looked sich a sight. | ||