Tutto. Ze money for ze Minstrels! Kvick! So sall you
Get rid of us. Like to ze artful gloser
In Mistare SEYMOUR'S sketch, ve "know ze value
Of peace and kvie'ness." Pay us, ve go, Sir! [Left tootling.
IN THE KNOW.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)
Am I going to Goodwood? I answer that question by another. Is it likely that a race-meeting of any pretensions can possibly do without one whom even his enemies acknowledge to be the only accurate and high-minded sporting writer in the world? Those who care (and I devoutly hope that Mr. J., whose brains equal those of a newly-born tadpole, will not be amongst the number) can see me at any moment on pronouncing the password, "mealy-mouth," in my old place, close to the space devoted to Royalty. Yes, I shall be there. In the meantime, I propose to treat of the horses as only I can treat of them. I have nothing to say against Pioneer, except that the name promises very well for one who means to lead the way. Nous verrons, as RACINE said, on a celebrated occasion. As for The Imp, I cannot too strongly lay it down that only blue devils are bad for the digestion, and Galloping Queen may gallop farther than or not so far as Miss Ethel. A miss must be better than a mile to win. If Theophilus were Formidable, or if Imogene possessed a Grecian Bend, it might be necessary to sound Reveille in Rotten Row, which would certainly be a Marvel. Not being a roadster, I sometimes like The Field.
The above information ought to be sufficient to guide anybody whose brains are calculated to fill an egg-cup. All others may go to Earlswood, where they will probably meet Mr. J.