_(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)_
I am a modest man, as well as an honest one. Censure cannot move me
by one hair's breadth from the narrow path of rectitude; praise cannot
unduly puff me up. Had I been other than I am, this last week would
have gone fatally near to ruining that timid and shrinking diffidence
which (I say it without egotism) marks me off from the poisonous,
pestilential, hydrocephalous, putty-faced, suet-brained reptiles who
disgrace the profession to which I belong. All I wish now to do is
to point out that _I am the only prophet_ who indicated, without any
beating about the bush, that _Marvel_ would win the Stewards' Cup
at Goodwood. My admirers have recognised the fact, and my private
residence has been choked by an avalanche of congratulatory
despatches, including two or three from some of the highest in the
land. H.S.H., the Grand Duke of PFEIFENTOPF says:--"You have me with
your writings much refreshed. I have the whole revenues of the Grand
Duchy against one thousand _flaschen_ of lager bier gebetted, and I
have won him on your noble advice on _Marvel_. I make you Commander of
the Honigthau Order." I merely cite this to show that my appreciators
are not to one country confined--I mean, confined to one country.
[Illustration]
What did I say last week, in speaking of the Stewards' Cup horses? By
the well-known grammatical figure known as the _hysteroproteron,_
I mentioned _Marvel_ last, intending, of course, as even a
buffalo-headed Bedlamite might have seen, that he should be first. And
he was first. But to make assurance doubly sure, and to bring prophecy
down to the intellectual level of a bat, I added, in speaking of the
winner, that he "would certainly be a _Marvel_." I say no more. As the
great Cardinal once observed to his chief of police, "_Je te verrai
soufflé d'abord,"_ so I reply to those who wish me to reveal the
secret of my success. Mr. J. knows it not, and no single member of
the imbecile, anserous, asinine, cow-hocked, spavin-brained, venomous,
hugger-mugger purveyors of puddling balderdash who follow him has the
least conception of my glorious system. But I am willing to teach,
though I have nothing to learn. For six halfpenny stamps those who
desire to _know_, shall receive my pamphlet on "Book-making."
Every applicant must send his photograph with his application, not
necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith.
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"SUR LE TAPIS."--It was a carpet that ostensibly parted an eminent
firm of composer, author, and theatrical manager. W.S.G. didn't want
D'OYLY CARPET--no, beg pardon, should have written D'OYLY CARTE to
have _carte blanche_. [Pretty name this. Is there a BLANCHE CARTE? If
not, "make it so."]--to do whatever he liked whenever he liked with
the decorating and upholstering of the theatre. And recently another
carpet, not in connection with the above firm, created a difficulty.
What's a thousand-guinea carpet to a man who likes this sort of
thing? Nothing. Yet as _amici curiae_, we would have thought that that
Tottenham Road carpet might have been kept out of Court. Wasn't that a
Blunder, MAPLE?
[Illustration: THE LOVE LETTER.--A STUDY OF INDISCRETION.]
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