Punch (99.1890)

August 30, 1890.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 97

" "WHY WOT LIVE OUT OP LONDON ?"

Sir,—Capital'subject _recently started in Daily ±ele-
graph, with the above title. Just what I've been saying
to my wife for years past. "Why don't you and the
family live out of London," I
have asked. And she has in-
variably replied, " Oh, yes, and
what would you be doing in
London ? " I impress upon her
that being the "bread-winner"
(beautiful word, this!) my duty
is to he on the spot where the
bread is won. I prove to her, in
figures, that it is much cheaper
for her and the family to live
out of town, and for me to come
down and see them, occa-
sionally. Isn't it cheaper for
one to go to a theatre than four? Well, this applies
everywhere all round. With my Club and a good room
I could get on very well and very reasonably in London,
and in the country my wife and family would positively
save enormously by my absence, as only the necessaries
of life would be required. Dressing would be next to
nothing, so to speak, and they'd be out of reach of the
temptations which London offers to those who love
theatre entertainments, lunches at pastrycooks', shows,
and shopping. Yes, emphatically, I repeat, " Why
not live out of London ? " But she won't.

Tours, One in a Thousand.

Sir,—"Why not live out of London?" Of course.
I do live "out of London," and make a precious good
living too out of London. My friends the Butcher, the
Baker, the Greengrocer (not a very green grocer either),
the Tailor, the_Shoemaker, &c, &c, all say the same as
Tours cheerily,
Charles Chedbab (Cheesemonger).

Sib,—I only wish everybody I don't want to see in
London would live out of it. What a thrice blessed time
August would be then! Though indeed I infinitely
appreciate small mercies now. At all events, most
people are away, my Club is not closed, and I can enjoy
myself pretty thoroughly. Tours,

Elbow Room Club. Beau Windeb.

Sir,—"Why not live out of London?" Because one
ean't. Out of London there is only " existence " Is life
worth living anywhere except in London—and Paris, if
yon happen to be there ? No, no ; those who like living
" out of London," had better not live at all.

Tours, Hippy Cube.

MR. PUNCH'S DICTIONARY OF PHRASES.
Peiyate Theatricals.

" TisnH a part that /feel, and I fear I shall make a
failure;" i.e., "Easy as be blowed, but I'm thrown
away upon it."

Tkade Embellishments.

"The Ching-Twangs Central China Tea Company's
selected growth of Early Green Leaf Spring Pickings '; "
i.e., " A damaged cargo and last year's rotten sweepings,
mingled with chipped broom, dried cabbage, and other
equally suitable and inviting ingredients."

At Luncheon.

"No more, indeed, really;" i.e., "Had nothing to
eat—but more of that stuff ? Wo, thank you."

Electioneering.

'' The Leaders to whom the Nation owes its recent period
of prosperity " ; i.e., " Gentlemen who have unavoidably
remained in Office during the revival of Trade."

"Having every personal respect for my opponent;"
i.e., " I now proceed to blacken his political character."
In the Smoking-Room.

"You know I always hate long arguments;" i.e.,
" Don't deprive me of my pet diversion."

"No; I don't exactly see what you mean;" i.e.,
" You don't; but the admission on my part looks
candid."

" My dear fellow, ask anyone who really knows any-
thing ; " i.s. "■ You appear to live among a half-educated
set of local faddists.""

'AERY ON 'ARRISON AND THE GLORIOUS TWELFTH.

Dear' Charlie,—No Parry for me, mate, not this season leastways—wus luck!
At the shop I'm employed in at present, the hands has all bloomin' well struck.
It's hupset all our 'olidays, Charlie, and as to my chance of a rise
Wot do you think, old pal ? I'm fair flummoxed, and singing, Oh, what a
surprise !

These Strikes is becoming rare noosanoes, dashed if they ain't, dear old boy.
They 're all over the shop, like Miss Zjeo, wot street-kids seems so to enjoy.
Mugs' game! They '11 soon find as the Marsters ain't goin' to be worried and
welched,

And when they rob coves of their 'olidays, 'ang it, they ought to be squelched.

'Owsomever, I'm mucked, that's a moral. This doosid dead-set against Wealth
Is a sign o' the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national 'ealth.
There ain't nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 'ere bellerers ban.
Wy, they 're down upon Sport, nowt a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it, old man ?

Bin a reading Fred 'Abbison's kibosh along o' " The Feast of St. Grouse,"
On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut of the
'Ouse,

Its Obstruction, and similar 'orrors, in course they hikes off to the Moors.
Small blame to 'em, Charlie, small blame to 'em, spite of the prigs and the
boors!

Yet this 'Areison he sets'his back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle a gun,
I '11 bet Marlboro' 'Ouse to a broomstick, and ain't got no notion of Fun.
" Loves the Moors much too well for to carry one ; " that's wot he says, sour
old sap

Bet my boots as he can't 'it a 'aystack at twenty yards rise—eh, old chap ?

Him sweet on the heather, my pippin, or partial to feather and fur,
So long as yer never kills nothink ? Sech tommy-rot gives me the spur.
Yah! Scenery's all very proper, but where is the genuine pot
Who'd pad the 'oof over the Moors, if it weren't for the things to be shot ?
" This swagger about killing birds is mere cant," sez this wobbling old wag.
From Arran he'd tramp to Dunrobin without the least chance of a bag!
•'Peaceful hills,",that's his patter, my pippin; no gillies, no luncheons, no
game!

Wy, he ought to be"tossed in a blanket; it fills a true Briton with Bhame.
No Moors for yours truly, wus luck! It won't run to it, Charlie, this round ;
But give me my gun, and a chance, and I '11 be in the swim, I '11 be bound.
I did 'ave a turn some years back, though I only went out with 'em once,
And I shot a bit wild, as was likely, fust off, though yer mayo, 't be a dunce.

My rig out was a picter they told me—deer-stalker and knickers O.K.—
Bbiggs, Junior," a lobsculler called me; I wasn't quite fly to his lay ;
But Briggs or no Briggs I shaped spiffin, in mustard- and-mud-colour checks.
Ah! them Moors is the spots for cold Irish, and gives yer the primest of pecks.

Talk of sandwiges, Charlie, oh scissors, I 'd soon ha' cleaned out Charing
Cross,

With St. Panerust and Ludgit chucked in ; fairly hopened the eye of the boss ;
Him as rented the shootings, yer know, big dry-salter in Thames Street, bit
warm

In his langwige occasional, Charlie, but 'arty and reglar good form.

Swells win pal in most anywhere now on the chance of a gratis Big Shoot,
And there wos some Swells with hus, I tell yer, I felt on the good gay galoot,
But I fancy I got jest a morsel sorewdnoodleous late in the day,
For I peppered a bloke in the breeks; he swore bad, but 'twas only his play.

Bagged'a brace and a arf, I did, Charlie ; not bad for a novice like me.
Jest a bit blown about the fust two ; wanted gathering up like, yer see.
A bird do look best with his 'ed on, dear boy, as a matter of taste ;
And the gillies got jest a mite scoffy along of my natural 'aste.
Never arsked me no more, for some reason. But wot I would say is this here,
'Aery's bin in this boat in his time, as in every prime lark pooty near,
And when 'Arrison talks blooming bunkum, with hadjectives spicy and strong,
About Sport being stupid, and noisy, and vulgar; wy, 'Areison's wrong!
He would rather shoot broken-down cab-horses,—so the mug tells us—than
birds.

Well, they 're more in his line very likely; that means, m his own chosen words,
He's more fit for a hammytoor knacker than for that great boast of our land,
A true British Sportsman! Great Scott! It's a taste as I carnt understand.
Fact is this here Feed is a Demmycrat, Positivist, and all that.
There's the nick o' the matter, the reason of all this un-English wild chat.
He is down on the Aristos, Chaelie, this 'Aeeison is. It's the Court
And the pick o' the Peerage Sport nobbles, and that's wy he sputters at Sport.
All a part of the game, dear old pal, the dead-set at the noble and rich.
" Smart people " are " Sports," mostly always, and 'Aerison slates them as rich.
'Ates killing of "beautiful creatures," and spiling "the Tummel in spate "
With "drives," champagne luncheons, and gillies? That's not wot dch
slab-dabbers 'ate.

It's "Privileged Classes," my pippin, they loathes. Yer can't own a big Moor,
Or even rent one like my dry-salter friend, if yer 'umble and poor.
Don't 'Areison never eat grouse ? Ah, you bet, much as ever he'll oarry.
There 'a " poK " for a Posit'vist, mate, there's "'Aesibok kiboshed by 'Abet,