"_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.
Ah! _Nobbles obliges_, old pardner, and great is the power of "form";
Rads may rail at "the clarses" like ginger, but all on us likes to be
"warm,"
And rub shoulders with suckles more shiny. Wy, life's greatest pulls,
dont cherknow,
Are to look up to sparklers above us, and down on poor duffers below.
'Ardly know wich is lummiest, swelp me! It's nuts to 'ook on to a swell,
Like I did at a Primrose meet lately with sweet Lady CLARE CARAMEL.
When her sunshade shone red on my face, mate, me givin' my arm through
the crush,
Wy I felt like Mong Blong in the mornin', and looked like a bride, one
big blush.
NODDY SPRIGGINS, _he_ spotted me, CHARLIE,--him being left out in the
cold,--
And to see him sit down on his topper, and turn off as yaller as gold,
Wos as good as a pantermime. Oh! if there's one thing more nicer than
pie,
It's to soar like a bird in the sight of the flats as can't git on the
fly.
But I'm wandering, CHARLIE, I'm wandering. 'Oliday form is my text.
Last year it was Parry and Switzerland; 'ardly know where to go next.
I should much like to try Monty Carlo, and 'ave a fair flutter for once,
But I fear it won't run to it, pardner; my boss is the dashdest old
dunce.
_Won't_ raise me to three quid a week, the old skinflint. Though
travelling's cheap,
It do scatter the stamps jest a few, if you don't care to go on the
creep.
Roolette might jest set me up proper, but then, dontcherknow, it might
_not_,
And I fear I should come back cleared out, if my luck didn't land me a
pot.
Oh, dash them spondulicks! The pieces is all as I wants for _my_ 'elth.
And then them darned Sosherlist jugginses 'owl till all's blue agin
Wealth.
It gives me the ditherums, CHARLIE; it do, dear old man, and no kid.
Wy, they 'd queer the best pitches in life, if they kiboshed the Power
of the Quid!
There's Venice again! I could start this next week with a couple o' pals;
But yer gondoler's 'ardly my form, and I never wos nuts on canals.
WAGGLES says _they_'re not like the Grand Junction, as creeps sewer-like
through our parks;
Well, WAGGLES may sniff; I'm not sure, up to now, mate, as Venice means
larks.
'Arf a mind to try Parry once more. It's a place as you soon git to love;
There is always some fun afoot there, as will keep a chap fair on the
shove.
Pooty scenery's all very proper, but glaciers and snow-peaks do pall,
And as to yer bloomin' Black Forests, the _Bor der Boolong_ beats 'em
all.
After all, there is something quite 'ome-like in Parry--so leastways I
think;
It's a place where you don't seem afraid to larf 'arty, or tip gals the
wink;
Sort o' _san janey_ feeling about it, my pippin'--you know wot I mean.
You don't feel _too_ fur from old Fleet Street, steaks, "bitter," and
"_God Save the Queen!_"
When your Britisher travels, he travels, but likes to be Britisher still;
With his _Times_ and his "tub" he is 'appy; without 'em he's apt to feel
ill.
Wy, when I was last year in Parry, I went for a Bullyvard crawl
One night arter supper, when who should I spot but my pal BOBBY BALL.
He wos doin' the gay at a Caffy, was BOB, _petty vair_, and all that,
Togged up to the nines with his claw-hammer, cuff-shooters, gloves, and
crush-hat.
"Wot cheer, BOBBY, old buster!" I bellered; and up from his paper he
looks.
Ah! and didn't we 'ave a rare night on it, CHARLIE! We both know _our_
books.
But wot do you think BOB was reading? _The Times_! I could twig it at
once.
He might 'ave 'ung on to _Gil Blars_, or the _Figgero_,--BOB ain't a
dunce--
But lor! not a bit on it, CHARLIE; the Britisher stuck out to rights;
'Twas JOHN BULL's big, well-printed old broad-sheet! Jest one of the
pootiest sights!
TORTONI'S is all very spiffing, the Bullyvard life is A 1,
And the smart little journals of Parry, though tea-paper rags, is good
fun;
But a Briton abroad _is_ a Briton; _chic_, spice, azure pictures, rum
crimes,
Is all very good biz in their way, but they do not make up for our
_Times_!
Well, I'm not on for Turmutshire, CHARLIE, not this time; and now you
know why.
Carn't yer jest turn the tables, old hoyster, and come for a bit of a
fly?
Cut the chawbacons, run up to London, jine _me_, and we'll pal off to
Parry;
And if yer don't find it a 'Oliday Skylark, wy, never trust.
'ARRY.
* * * * *
VICE VERSÂ.--The French Ministers are away from Paris for their
vacation. M. DEVELLE, it is said, has gone to La Bourboule. This is
better for the place than La Bourboule going to the Develle.
* * * * *
[Illustration: HER FIRST WASP.
_Poor Effie_ (_who has been stung_). "FIRST IT WALKED ABOUT ALL OVER
MY HAND, AND IT _WAS_ SO NICE! BUT OH!--_WHEN IT SAT DOWN!_"]
* * * * *