Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, August 30, 1890

SIR,--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.

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

"_Tisn't a part that I_ feel, and I fear I shall make a failure;" i.e., "Easy as be blowed, but I'm thrown away upon it."

TRADE 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? No, 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 anything;" i.e. "You appear to live among a half-educated set of local faddists."

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 noosances, dashed if they ain't, dear old boy. They're all over the shop, like Miss ZÆO, wot street-kids seems so to enjoy. Mugs' game! They'll 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, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it, old man?

Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'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 'ARRISON he sets his back up. Dry smug as can't 'andle a gun, I'll 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 shame.

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'll be in the swim, I'll 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 _may_n't be a dunce.

My rig out was a picter they told me--deer-stalker and knickers O.K.-- "BRIGGS, 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. Pancrust 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 will 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 screwdnoodleous 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, 'ARRY'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, 'ARRISON'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, in 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 FRED 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, CHARLIE, this 'ARRISON 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 'ARRISON slates them as sich. 'Ates killing of "beautiful creatures," and spiling "the Tummel in spate" With "drives," champagne luncheons, and gillies? That's not wot sich 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 'ARRISON never eat grouse? Ah, you bet, much as ever he'll carry. There's "poz" for a Posit'vist, mate, there's 'ARRISON kiboshed by 'ARRY.

Oh dear! oh dear! What perils I have been through! You'll see me again shortly; but there have been momentums in my career when I said to myself, "Shall I ever aller out of this alive!" I escaped the Petersburg police; they punched out your Cartoon, and all the lines about the Czar and the Jews; that's why I was so persecuted, and why I was watched. I wish to Heaven you wouldn't have Cartoons about Czars and Jews just when I'm at Peterborough, I mean Petersburg; same name, different place. But there, that's all over now, and jamais will I go and put myself within the clutches of the Russian Bear again. The midnight sun must do without me in future. I send you a sketch I made of a gargle--I think that's the name--on a church-door in Lapland. Isn't it really droll? You're always bothering me for something droll, and now you've got it. Then, Mr. Punch, riding a reindeer at half-a-crown an hour. Then here are the little Lapps offering our sailors a lap of liquor; and I said to myself, "One touch of Nature," which struck me as just the very motto for the picture. I roared with laughter at it. "This'll do for 'em at home," I said, and so here it is. And look at the "Lapps of Luxury"! You know that "Lap of Luxury" is a proverbial phrase; and, as you told me to make some comic sketches of the manners and customs of the country, why, I've done so; and, if they ain't funny, I don't know what humour is. Voilà!

But you really must not expect me to grimace and buffoon. You must take me seriatim or not at all. I can't stand on my head to sketch. I can't do it. I nearly did do it, though, for when I had my sketching-book in my hand on board, the spanker-boom, or some such thing, came over suddenly and hit me such a whack on the head, that for two minutes I lay insensible, and thought I should never become sensible again. Rightly is it called "spanker-boom,"--that is if it is called so, or some name very like it,--for I never got such a whack on the head in all my life before. I hear the Booming still in my ears.

You can't expect a fellow to be funny, however funny he may feel (and I did feel uncommonly funny, you may take your oath!), under such circumstances. However, as the song says, "Home once more," and many a yarn shall I have to tell when I gather myself round the fireside, pipe all hands for grog, and sing you an old Norse song with real humour in it--though I dare say you'll say you don't see it--and so no more à présent from yours seasickly (I am quite well, but I mean I'm sick of the sea),

FLOTSAM, Y.A.