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!!
No matter how the wind may veer!
Will have no fear! and will not sweer! so do not jeer!!! the
Volunteer!!!"
--appropriate _patriotic_ music to which will be written by Signor
CLEMENTI SCHIOTTI!
There is no racing of any importance this week, there being only a
small Meeting under Pic Nic Rules, at a place called Goodwood--(I
write of it in this contemptuous way, as I am not going
myself)--somewhere on the coast of the Solent--to which I need not
allude at any length; I will, therefore, only mention one race
having been so successful lately, that I can afford to rest on my
oars--(rather an insecure position by the way, for anyone who can't
swim!) and remain as usual
Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.