The Bobolink, Henley.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,

The Election at Sheepsdoor being regarded as a “moral” for our Candidate—­(what a delightful change from the im-moral way in which elections used to be conducted!)—­I felt it was safe for me to wing my flight to fresh scenes and pastures new!—­not that I wanted any “new pastures,” having been a grass-widow for some time;—­but having had enough of the “rolling billow”—­(by the way, the rolling “Billow” at Stockbridge didn’t roll fast enough)—­I yearned for the silvery smoothness of Father Thames, so started for Henley with my faithful Eulalie—­(I really must change her name, it sounds like a Swiss joedel); but, oh! my goodness!—­talk about billows—­the Channel passage is a fool to what we found at Henley!  Waves mountain high!—­(This of course is an exaggeration, but I’ve read it so often in sea-novels, that I’ve almost come to believe it possible—­it would be nearer the truth, as dear Mrs. RAMSBOTHAM would pronounce it, I fancy—­waves “mounting high.”) I had to sit all day on the roof of the Bobolink, with a lifebelt or something round my waist!—­and having made me acquaintance of a sweet youth who could swim, I implored him not to leave me!—­and he didn’t—­the whole day long.  Ah! he was very nice!—­I need not tell you I didn’t notice the racing much, but I did take an interest in two of the contests; viz.—­(I don’t know what “viz.” means—­but I do know I am using it correctly)—­The Diamond Sculls, and The Ladies’ Challenge.  The Diamonds were walked off, or rowed off to Holland—­(great place, I’m told, for diamonds)—­by Mr. K. OOMS (who evidently “kooms” of an athletic stock), amid the generous cheers of our defeated Englishmen!  The other—­and naturally, from its title, the most important event—­was competed for by two boat-loads from Cambridge University—­Crews, I believe, they call them, but I always thought it was a sign of contempt to allude to any party of people as “a crew.”  However that may be, I was informed that “First Trinity had carried off the Ladies!” (just as if they were a pack of Sabine women), and I suppose it was true; though, in counting up the Ladies in sight, I only missed one—­and she, I found, had fallen into the river, and been gallantly rescued by a spectator, who, I presume, was determined to have his share, in spite of the First Trinity Men!

Back to town, after all was over on Thursday, to find everybody wild with “election fever.”  A large group surrounding the “tape” at the Club (I belong to the “Amazon,” of course), and ordering lemon squashes when a seat was lost, and whiskey and seltzer when the reverse was the case!  Oh, this Election!  Thank goodness, I’m off to Newmarket, to spend the week with Sir NEWMAN and Lady GATESHEAD, with a distinct feeling of relief at getting back to business after this fortnight of exciting relaxation!