I was told at Guernsey that I must on no account miss seeing “Sark.” so I didn’t—­but was careful to observe it from a distance—­for really, in these days of eruptions one doesn’t know what might happen on such a volcanic-looking island!—­and besides, I always carry a pocket “AEtna” in my dressing-bag, so that I can have a flare-up whenever I like.  But let me see, where was I?  Oh, yes! sharry-banging out to the races at Jersey.  Well, really now, judging from some of the lovely toilettes worn by the Jersey “Daughters of Eve” (an old-established journalistic expression, and to my mind, most idiotic and insulting—­we are not all tempting!)—­they are in front of a good many of their Main-land sisters!—­and the Hospitality—­(always a capital H, I believe)—­shown by the 1st South Lancashire Regiment is not to be beaten anywhere!  The Lawn was well patronised, and the enthusiasm was tremendous—­seven events—­all over two miles, and two over hurdles, where one came down!  What more could you want—­together with a glorious day, “and all the fun for the Fair!”

The great event of the day was “Her Majesty’s Cup,” for three years’ old and upwards—­(one went downwards)—­and it was won, for the —­th time in succession by Jersey Lily (I won’t tell the exact number of times, as it is rude to hint at a lady’s age)—­amid a scene of excitement almost as big as the Eclipse at Sandown!—­she was “followed home”—­(racing expression—­patented)—­by Lady Westhill and Lady Steephill—­so you see we were quite among the haut-ton—­though some of us had never heard of these aristocratic thorough-breds before!

And so the Jersey Goodwood is once more over!—­and we have again from the springy turf of the Solent—­(a most insecure footing)—­caught in the flush of the sunlight the gleaming white sails of the vessels on the Goodwood Downs!—­(this may sound a little wrong—­but I prefer it to using a more stereotyped and matter-of-fact description).

As to the racing of next week—­I have not the faintest idea where it is, what it is, or why it is!—­but such trifles do not disturb me, and I will proceed to my usual prophetic utterance on the event of the week!

Yours devotedly, LADY GAY.

THE BANK HOLIDAY STAKES SELECTION.

  In the sweet month of August no longer I choose,
    By the river or seaside to tarry! 
  Preferring, in depths of the country to lose
    All chance of encounter with “’ARRY!”

* * * * *

“MINIME!”—­The other day the SPEAKER admitted that he couldn’t remember the Latin for “Yes.”  What a lot of time, trouble, and money our own countrymen would be spared could they only occasionally forget that there is such a word as “Yes” in English!  How many marriages, which have ended in misery, would never have come off but for this mischievous monosyllable!  But to continue this is to be Hamletising, and to consider too curiously.  For the SPEAKER to own it, stamps him as the genuine article, a Candid PEEL.