LADY GAY’S SELECTIONS.

Yacht “Ibex,” Weymouth.

Dear Mr. Punch,

Once again “my foot is on my native heath.”—­(I don’t know where this quotation comes from, but presume the author of it had lost a leg, or he would have placed his feet there—­or else he must have had one leg shorter than the other, and so couldn’t put both down at once!)—­and heartily glad I am to be there—­we had a most alarming passage from Jersey, and I thought every moment would be my last—­(for a time)—­but I was cheered and stimulated to endurance by the noble example of my friend and fellow-passenger The MACDOUGAL—­Chief of the Clan—­who was obtrusively well up to lunch-time!—­but I had my revenge then, for he was unable to face the dish of Haggis that I am given to understand every right-minded Scotchman thinks it his duty to eat at least once a day.

However, “I pulled through all right,” as Lord Arthur would say, and was so delighted with my sailor-like indifference to the “rolling-sea,” that I adopted a rolling-walk on landing, which was most impressive, to judge from the staring of the inhabitants of Weymouth!—­(I may confess to you that I couldn’t help myself; everything was going up and down and sideways, for hours after I landed, and I really think the sea ought to be done away with, or flattened out by some means!—­there’s a fortune for the man who invents the machine which will do it!)—­I should prefer it done away with myself, as then there would be no mackerel-fishing!

I have no personal animosity against the humble but lovely-looking mackerel; but I was weak enough to accept an invitation to go fishing for them, and you may imagine my horror at being “roused out,”—­(yachting expression, very significant)—­at three in the morning to go and capture them!—­or at least to try—­for as a matter of fact, we didn’t get a single one—­and my temper was “roused out” before we’d finished, for no well-conducted woman cares to be balked in her efforts to “hook a big fish,”—­and all I could catch were a few small “Pollock” and “Pout.”  By the way, who on earth christens the fish, I wonder?—­and why on earth—­or rather in sea—­are there so many varieties which you must either remember or submit to nave your ignorance jeered at by the practised fisherman, who has probably acquired his information concerning them only the day before?

The English “Bay of Naples” is a wonderful place, and its resemblance to its Italian prototype is admirably sustained through the liberality of the Local Board in encouraging the importation of Italian penny-ice men!  I really think this wholesale importation of foreigners is being carried to excess, and has already created a feeling that England is no place for the English!  And then the concerts you can hear for nothing!—­that is, if you harden your heart when the man comes round with the