A VICTORY OF THE POLLS.
LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS.
Mount Street, Grosvenor Square.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
The Race for the Eclipse Stakes at Sandown was productive of tremendous excitement, and everybody turned pale as the two gallant horses came up the straight, locked together, but the key to the situation—Parliamentary phrase, due to the prevalence of Elections—was held by the champion Orme, who managed to get home, "all out" by a neck!—at least, Lord ARTHUR said he was "all out," though how he could be "home" at the same time I don't quite understand—but he may have been alluding to the backers of Orvieto. I was told that St. Damien "made up a lot of ground at the finish;" but I can't say I noticed it myself, as the course looked to me exactly as it did before the race! Dear me! how pleased my friends the Duke and Duchess of WESTMINSTER did look! and with good reason, too—it was a wonderful task for Orme to accomplish, with only six weeks' training!—it must have been a special train all the time; in fact, the one he was brought to Sandown in, I suppose.
Being unable to go to Leicester, I took advantage of a military escort, offered me by—(no—let the gallant officer's name remain a secret—he little thought he was escorting a Press-lady)—to pay a visit to the New Wimbledon—and being nothing if not loyal, I chose the day when the shooting for the "Queen's" commenced. My escort informed me with an inane smile, that the Camp had experienced "Bisley weather;" the feebleness of which joke so annoyed me, that I am half inclined to put his name in the pillory of public print—(what a glorious expression for our own Midlothian Mouther)—but I refrain, for reasons connected with Lord ARTHUR.
I must say that I think Bisley has a more business-like look than Wimbledon ever had, though perhaps this is scarcely to the taste of the average feminine visitor, who used to enjoy pic-nicing to the accompaniment of whizzing bullets, and does not appreciate the latter without the former. The shooting was very uncertain in the first stage of the Queen's, as the wind was in a variable mood—(is the wind feminine, I wonder?)—going sometimes at eighteen and sometimes at thirty miles an hour, which was disconcerting and inconsiderate behaviour (it must be feminine!)—calculated to annoy any right-minded Volunteer! Indeed, one notoriously good shot, Private CHICKEN, although a good plucked one—having made six misses in ten shots—declined to be roasted by his friends, and retired into his casserole—which is French for tent, I believe—while several other marksmen (why marksmen?) found themselves carefully placing their bullets on other people's targets.
However, I was much struck with the equanimity with which reverses were accepted by the members of our gallant Amateur Army, and intend composing an ode in their honour, to be sung in camp to the accompaniment of bullets, bagpipes, and brass bands! (more alliteration for the Midlothian Maltese Marriage Merchant), the refrain of which will run thus:—
The Volunteer! The Volunteer!!