The horse is named Ventre-Tambour, Bellydrum!!
He is assured to win; Milord dreamt, last night, that he saw him four lengths ahead at Tattenham-court-road Corner.
I wager freely on Ventre-Tambour.
Lord Ouiggins says we had better not go down to his baronial hall at Ouapping, but “make a night” and start early.
Ah, nights of London, you have not, effectively, stolen your reputation! What contrasts, fascinating but terrible—here, the noblesse, like Ouiggins quaffing champagne with visitors from France; and there the miserables, the Tom-Dick-Harries drinking gin—the blonde misses, casting aside the Puritanic pudor of the saloon, and dancing freely with foreign gentlemans at the Duke of Argyle’s Casino—what contrasts, but also, alas, what jealousies still existing, what internecine hatred still in rage!
That the English should hate the Irish is but natural.
We always hate those whom we have wronged!
It is less reasonable that they should continue to hate the children of Cambria, with whom they have been so long in friendly union.
And yet, more than once during this exciting evening, I have heard Lord Ouiggins spoken of—my patrician pur sang—as a Welsher, with evident contempt.
Brutal antipathies unworthy of the century!