Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 8

in the stable, though fit,
ay, and able To lead the whole field and to win by a lot. A hunter I
never bestrode half as clever! _Tithe_? Pooh! _He_'s not in it, my
beauty, with you. You've breed, style, and mettle, and look in rare fettle.
If I had to settle, you know what _I_'d do!
These gentlemen-riders deem all are outsiders Save them: as if gent
ever made A 1 jock! Ah! ADAM L. GORDON,[1] poor chap, had a
word on Such matters. I'll warrant he sat like a rock, And went like a
blizzard. Yes, beauty, it is hard To eat off your head in the stable like
this. Too long you have idled; but wait till you're bridled! The hunt of
the season I swear you won't miss,
It has been hard weather, although, beauty, whether 'Tis that altogether
your chance that postponed, Or whether Boss SOLLY committed a
folly-- No matter! A comelier crack he ne'er owned, Although 'tis I say
it who shouldn't. The way it Has snowed and has frozen may be his
excuse; But when you're once started, deer-limbed, lion-hearted, I
warrant, my beauty, you'll go like the deuce.
"A lean head and fiery, strong quarters, and wiry, A loin rather light,
but a shoulder superb," That's GORDON's description of Iseult. (All
whip shun When riding such rattlers, and trust to the curb.) That mare
was your sort, lad. I guess there'll be sport, lad, When you make strong
running, and near the last jump. And you, when extended, look
"bloodlike and splendid." Ah! poor LINDSAY GORDON was
sportsman and trump.
I see your sleek muzzle in front! It will puzzle Your critics, my boy, to
pick holes in you then: There's howling "HISTORICUS,"--he's but a
sorry cuss! WEG, too, that grandest of all grand old men; He's ridden
some races; of chances and paces, Of crocks versus cracks he did ought
to be judge. He sees you are speedy; when MORLEY sneers "Weedy,"
Or LAB doubts your staying, WEG knows it's all fudge!
We're biding our time, lad. Your fettle is prime, lad; Though we're
frost-bound now, open weather must come, At least after Easter; and,
beauty, when we stir. And forge to the front, lad, we'll just make things

hum. In spite of much ruction concerning Obstruction, I wish--_in a
whisper_--we'd started before, And, forcing the running, discarding all
cunning, Romped in--_as we will_--'midst a general roar!
[Footnote 1: ADAM LINDSAY GORDON, the ardent, horse-loving
Australian poet.]
* * * * *
MORE IBSENITY.
Ghosts at the Royalty. "Alas, poor Ghosts!" A shady piece. "No money
taken at the doors" on this occasion, which is making a virtue of
necessity. This being the case, Ghosts was, and if played again will, be
witnessed by an audience mainly composed of "Deadheads." Lively
this. The Critics have spoken out strongly, and those interested in this
Ibsenity should read the criticisms presumably by Mr. CLEMENT
SCOTT in The Telegraph and Mr. MOY THOMAS in The Daily News.
Stingers; but as outspoken as they are true, and just in all their dealings
with this Ibsenian craze.
* * * * *
"Les Oiseaux."--Mrs. RAM says she pities any unfortunate man whose
wife has a fearful temper. She knows one such husband who quite
quails before his wife, "and I'm not surprised," adds Mrs. R., "for I
know her, and she's a regular ptarmigan."
* * * * *
The Coming Census.--CARLYLE said, "The population of the British
Empire is composed of so many millions, mostly fools." Will the
Census be taken on the First of April?
* * * * *
[Illustration: KEPT IN THE STABLE.
HEAD GROOM. "AH, MY BEAUTY!--YOU HAVEN'T HAD

MUCH CHANCE YET--BUT WE SHALL HAVE SOME OPEN
WEATHER _AFTER EASTER_!"]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration]
The Baron can highly recommend _The Wages of Sin_, by LUCAS
MALET. "I am informed," says the B. DE B.-W., "that this is the nom
de plume of an Authoress. This MALET should be Femalet." Be this as
it may, the Baron, who is discretion itself, will not attempt to penetrate
beyond the veil. Some of the writing is a bit tall; but thank heaven, my
old æsthetic friend, "O-the-pity-of-it" occurs only once; and O the pity
of it when he does so, and gives a "MAUDLE and
POSTLETHWAITE" tone to the passage in question. What does
"huffle" mean? (Vol. III., p. 82.) Genius has a right to create words;
and when Genius does so, the very sound of the word conveys its
meaning with and frequently without the context. "But I'm huffled,"
says the Baron, "if I understand it here." Still "huffled" is a
good-substitute for strong language, when you're ruffled. Don't let the
light-hearted reader be deterred by the slow pace of