I believe is the case—­and I was told by Sir CHARLEY WHITELEY, that to win the Newmarket Oaks she had to be “bustled up”—­a fashion which I thought had quite gone out!—­anyhow, many people think she is “not the same mare she was”—­though how they can have changed her I don’t quite understand, but it would not surprise me to find Windgall the best of the Baron’s on the day.

There are several horses spoken of as “rods in pickle,” but as a rule, these animals stop at “rods” and never get to “poles” much less “perches!” Should Sir JAS. MILLER win the race, the town may resound with many a merry Joedel, but this is trying weather for voices, though I believe he is running untried, but certainly trying!  There was some doubt as to the starting of a great favourite, owing to a report that the owner had been “forestalled”—­an excuse which always sounds very weak to me, as surely if outsiders can back a horse at a long price, the owner should also be able to do so, and thus put backers “in the cart”—­where some of them would present a picture which might lead people to think the “cart” was on its way to Tyburn!  There appears to be considerable doubt as to whether Buccaneer has eaten anything lately or not, so I must discard him; but I think if he were given a sherry and bitters at once he might recover his appetite and win, as he is known to be a “glutton” for work!  JEWITT’s best will take some beating, when we know which it is, which we shall do shortly, as no stable is more ready than this to let everyone into the secret of their “good things;”, so if some Whisperer, should tell you that his Suspender is broken, it is on the cards that the Pensioner may still be able to walk home in safety!  But enough of this (as your readers will doubtless say!)—­and let us come to the point as the knife said to the pencil—­so I will conclude by recommending a “maximum” on my choice, and as it is a foreign one, I must necessarily break out into foreign poetry—­(just as easy to—­),

Yours devotedly,

LADY GAY.

CAMBRIDGESHIRE SELECTION.

  Le type le plus “noir” dans le monde,
    Le nomme, on dit, Le Chouan! 
  Mais, roule au dessous de l’onde,
    Devient “Blanc” comme Kairouan!

* * * * *

TO ASTRAEA.

(WHO WOULD HAVE ME SHOW HER MY HAND.)

[Illustration]

Too pretty Palmist, oh, refrain,
Nor thus my Destinies importune
To bare the map of trite and plain
Misfortune.

Methinks, that I, sweet sorceress,
Whose weird persuasions fascinate us,
Can read my stars without express
Afflatus.

“I’m o’er ambitious”—­more than true;
To fail, the lot of clever men ’tis. 
Who’s not a genius in his two-
And-twenties.

(Your two-and-twenties bide above,
While mine—­I’m in the sere and yellow—­
But I was once the model of
A fellow.)