“A monument of antiquated Norman tyranny,” or, “A relic of early English fraud and ignorance;” i.e., “A statute which I and my Party wish to repeal.”

“The most precious constitutional legacy of those who fought and bled,” &c., &c.; i.e., Ditto ditto impugned by the opposite Party.

Legal.

“I am instructed, my Lord, that this is, in fact, the case;” i.e., “I see that, as usual, you have got upon a false scent; but as this suits the book of my client, the solicitor (whose nod at this moment may mean anything, and, therefore, why not approval?), I encourage the mistake.”

Lecturer at A Battle Panorama.

“It is a well-known historical fact that—­;” i.e., “You needn’t believe a word of it.”

“A bank of heavy clouds lowers in the horizon;” i.e., “The black paint has been laid on thick.”

“The plain stretches far away;” i.e., “About five yards.”

* * * * *

’ARRY on the ’oliday season.

  Dear Charlie,—­’Ow are yer, my pippin?  ’Ere’s ’oliday season come round,
  And I’m off on the galoot somewheres, and that pooty soon, you be bound;
  But afore I make tracks for dear Parry, or slope for the Scheldt or the
      Rhine,
  My ’art turns to turmuts and you, and I feel I must drop yer a line.

  You gave me a invite this season, I know, my dear boy.  Well, yer see
  It’s this way.  The green tooral-looral’s all right, but it ’ardly suits
      Me! 
  When you’re well in the swim, my dear Charlie, along o’ the reglar
      eleet,
  You must do as they do, for a swell, like a Bobby, must stick to his
      beat.

  [Illustration:  ’ARRY ON THE BOULEVARDS.]

  It’s expected, old man, it’s expected.  Jest fancy me slinging my ’ook
  For old Turmutshire, going out nuttin’, or bobbing for fish in a brook! 
  Not der wriggle, dear boy, I assure you.  Could stars of Mayfair be
      content
  To round upon Rome or the Riggi, and smug up in Surrey or Kent?

  No fear!  Cherry orchards is pooty, and ’ops ’as admirers, no doubt;
  But it’s only when sport is afoot as the country’s worth fussin’ about. 
  Your toff likes the turmuts or stubbles when poultry is there to be shot. 
  But corn-fields and cabbage-beds, CHARLIE?  Way oh! that’s all
      middle-class rot.

  There wos a time, CHARLIE, I own it, when Richmond ’ud do me to rights. 
  And a fortnight at Margit meant yum-yum to look for and dream on o’
      nights;
  I was innercent then, a young geeser, too modest for this world, dear
      boy;
  Didn’t know you’d to do wot was proper, and not what you think you’d
      enjoy.