_Theodore_.--I don't know how you could prevent people from living half
the year in town.
_Tickler_.--I have no objection to their living half the year in town,
as you call it, if they can live in such a hell upon earth, of dust,
noise, and misery. Only think of the Dolphin water in the solar
microscope!
_Theodore_.--I know nothing of the water of London personally.
_Odoherty_.--Nor I; but I take it, we both have a notion of its brandy
and water.
_Tickler_.--'Tis, in fact, their duty to be a good deal in London. But
I'll tell you what I do object to, and what I rather think are evils of
modern date, or at any rate, of very rapid recent growth. First, I
object to their living those months of the year in which it is _contra
bonos mores_ to be in London, not in their paternal mansions, but at
those little bastardly abortions, which they call watering-places--their
Leamingtons, their Cheltenhams, their Brighthelmstones.
_Theodore_.--Brighton, my dear rustic Brighton!
_Odoherty_.--Synopice.
_Shepherd_.--What's your wull, Sir Morgan? It does no staun' wi' me.
_Theodore_.--A horrid spot, certainly--but possessing large
conveniences, sir, for particular purposes. For example, sir, the
balcony on the drawing-room floor commonly runs on the same level all
round the square--which in the Brighthelmstonic dialect, sir, means a
three-sided figure. The advantage is obvious,
_Shepherd_.
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