unduly puff me up. Had I been other than I am, this last week would
have gone fatally near to ruining that timid and shrinking diffidence
which (I say it without egotism) marks me off from the poisonous,
pestilential, hydrocephalous, putty-faced, suet-brained reptiles who
disgrace the profession to which I belong. All I wish now to do is
to point out that _I am the only prophet_ who indicated, without any
beating about the bush, that _Marvel_ would win the Stewards' Cup
at Goodwood. My admirers have recognised the fact, and my private
residence has been choked by an avalanche of congratulatory
despatches, including two or three from some of the highest in the
land. H.S.H., the Grand Duke of PFEIFENTOPF says:--"You have me with
your writings much refreshed. I have the whole revenues of the Grand
Duchy against one thousand _flaschen_ of lager bier gebetted, and I
have won him on your noble advice on _Marvel_. I make you Commander of
the Honigthau Order." I merely cite this to show that my appreciators
are not to one country confined--I mean, confined to one country.

[Illustration]

What did I say last week, in speaking of the Stewards' Cup horses? By
the well-known grammatical figure known as the _hysteroproteron,_
I mentioned _Marvel_ last, intending, of course, as even a
buffalo-headed Bedlamite might have seen, that he should be first. And
he was first. But to make assurance doubly sure, and to bring prophecy
down to the intellectual level of a bat, I added, in speaking of the
winner, that he "would certainly be a _Marvel_." I say no more. As the
great Cardinal once observed to his chief of police, "_Je te verrai
soufflé d'abord,"_ so I reply to those who wish me to reveal the
secret of my success. Mr. J. knows it not, and no single member of
the imbecile, anserous, asinine, cow-hocked, spavin-brained, venomous,