ate, I answers,
"_Ker_-rect!"

Socierty's right, my dear CHARLIE,--Socierty always _is_ right,--
GLADSTONE'S gab about "masses and classes" is all tommy rot and
sour spite.
There is only one class worth consid'rin', and that is the reglar
_fust_-class;
And the chap as don't try to get into it--well, he is simply a ass.

Socierty sez, "When the Season is hover, slide off to the Sea!
It's _the_ place for a fair autumn barney." And shall I dispute it?
Not me.
'ARRY knows his tip better than that, Sir. Your juggins may 'ave
'is own whim
About bicycling, boating, or wot not; _I_ mean bein' well in the swim.

Lor, it warms a cove's heart dontcherknow, puts his sperrits right slap
on the rise,
Wen the Niggers are dancing a break-down or singing _Two Lovely
Black Eyes_.
To see lardy Toffs and swell ladies, and smart little gals with
no fuss,
'Anging round on the listen and snigger as though they wos each
one of _hus_.

They likes it, my lad, yus they likes it, the Music Hall patter and
slang.
Yet some jugginses kick at _my_ lingo as _vulgar_! Oh, let 'em go 'ang.
Take a run, Mister Mealymouthed Critic, go home and eat coke, poor
old man.
All Toffs as _is_ Toffs share my tastes; we are built on the very
same plan.

Wots the hodds if yer rides in a kerredge, or drives in a double-'orse
drag,
With a 'orn and a loud concerteena and lots o' prime prog in the bag?
It is only a question of ochre, the principle's ditto all round.
It is larks by the Sea we all seek, and they suits us all down to
the ground.

But now, I am off to the Pier, CHARLIE. Boat's coming in from Boolong,
And I wouldn't miss that not for nothink. The wind blows a little bit
strong,
And there's bound to be lots on 'em quisby, some regular goners, dessay;
And it _is_ sech a lark to chi-ike them, the best bit o' fun of the day.

Old jokers in sealskin caps, CHARLIE, drawn over their poor blue old
ears,
Pooty gals with complexions like paste-pots, old mivvies gone green
with the queers;
Little toffs with their billycocks raked, jest to swagger it off like,
yer know,
But with hoptics like badly-biled whelks. Oh, I tell yer it's all a
prime show.

_Larf_, CHARLIE? It bangs ARTHUR ROBERTS, and makes a chap bloomin'
nigh bust.
I must take a 'am sanwich to munch. Wen a cove ketches sight on it fust,
And I sings