longer "play for love," but "love to play!")--to say nothing of the
constant strain on one's nerves as to what the weather was going
to do to one's gowns, I have had a severe attack of overwork, with
complicating symptoms of my old enemy, idleness!--so that, on my
return to town, my Doctor--(he's a _dear_ man, and prescribes just
what I suggest)--insisted that I should at once run down to the
Seaside to recuperate. Hence my retirement to the little fishing
village of Sheepsdoor in Kent, "far from the gadding crowd;" a most
delightfully rural and little-known resort, where we all go about in
brown canvas-shoes--(russia-leather undreamt of!)--and wear out all
our old things, utterly regardless of whether we look "_en suite_"
or not. The only precaution _I_ take is to carry in my pocket a thick
veil, which I pop on if I see anybody with evidences of "style" about
them coming my way; fortunately, this has only happened once, when
I met a certain well-known "Merry Duchess" and her charming little
daughter, who both failed to penetrate my disguise!

I am sorry that my selected horse for the Windsor June Handicap did
not run--though the word of command was given, "_Macready_!"--he was
not told to be "present!"--being presumably short of a gallop or two,
and therefore lacking "fire!" This little series of jokes is proudly
dedicated to the _Military_, and _Civilians_ are "warned off!"--which
is another turf expression. The much-needed rain has come at last,
and the Heath should be in fine condition, which was more than its
namesake at Ascot was, and all for want of a little attention--I am
told that the far end was all in lumps, which caused the "_Lover_" to
come down in his race--though that was hardly a surprise, as we know
that "the course of true love never _did_ run smooth!"

Now--dear _Mr. Punch_, if you want a few hours' fresh air, command the