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LADY GAY’S SELECTIONS.
Mount Street, Grosvenor Square.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,
Nothing but a keen sense of duty, coupled with the possession of the smartest thing in waterproof overcoats ever seen, would have tempted me to go racing last week; but the claims of Hurst Park were not to be denied, and my reward was, assisting at perhaps the most successful meeting ever held there—(the backers “went down” to a man, and so did the excellent lunch—so what more could you want?)—and, in addition, being told by at least twenty people, the name of the winner of the Cesarewitch!—they all named different horses, so that one is almost certain to be able to say next week, in that annoying tone of voice people adopt after a successful prophecy—(this does not apply to Just Prophets, who are notoriously modest in success)—“There! I told you it was a certainty for Whiteface!—couldn’t lose!—of course you backed it, after what I told you!”—which of course was the very reason why you hadn’t backed it; however—as he may really be able to tell you something on a future occasion, you put on a ghastly smile, and say—“Oh, yes—I had a trifle on—but my money was on Blackfoot before you told me—but it got me out!”—and it does “get you out” too, for nothing is more annoying than to be told you “ought to have won a good stake!”
However, with regard to the great race next week, I am fortunately able to set aside all “information received,” because I have had a dream!—not one of the ordinary lobster-salad kind of racing-dreams one reads about—(naturally I should not have an inferior kind, having ordered in a stock of the “best selected,” one to be taken every night at bed-time)—in which the dreamer only sees one horse—but a most complicated affair, from which it will be an easy task for anyone skilled in dream-lore to extract the winner!
Well—I had been rather upset during the day, so to quiet my nerves, on reaching home, I took, before going to bed, just a little Golden Drop of Brandy as an Insurance against restlessness—went to sleep, and dreamt that my friends Lady Villikins and Madame d’Albany, with their maid Helen Ware, were attacked on their way from Illsley to Weymouth, by some Dare Devil of a Circassian, whose horse’s hoofs rang in a Metallic manner on the road! They were rescued in the pass of Ben Avon by the gallant Burnaby, who after a long Rigmarole, squared their captor, Roy Neil, with a Hanover Jack, and acted as their Pilot to safe quarters at Versailles! There!—that was my dream—and I think it points most conclusively to the winner; and, anyone unable to pick the right one, need only back them all, and there you are!—or at least you may be. If they don’t care to do this, they can avail themselves of my verse selection—which I did not dream—and which, therefore, is quite as reliable.