repeat at the Angel, with an appearance of
being lunatically seized, some rhapsody to the
following effect: "O little lilac gloves! And O
winning little bonnet, making in conjunction
with her golden hair quite a Glory in the
sunlight round the pretty head, why anything in
the world but you and me! Why may not
this day's running—of horses, to all the rest:
of precious sands of life to me—be prolonged
through an everlasting autumn-sunshine,
without a sunset! Slave of the Lamp, or
Ring, strike me yonder gallant equestrian
Clerk of the Course, in the scarlet coat,
motionless on the green grass for ages! Friendly
Devil on Two Sticks, for ten times ten
thousand years, keep Blink-Bonny jibbing at the
post, and let us have no start! Arab drums,
powerful of old to summon Genii in the
desert, sound of yourselves and raise a troop
for me in the desert of my heart, which shall
so enchant this dusty barouche (with a
conspicuous excise-plate, resembling the Collector's
door-plate at a turnpike), that I, within
it, loving the little lilac gloves, the winning little
bonnet, and the dear unknown-wearer with
the golden hair, may wait by her side for ever,
to see a Great St. Leger that shall never be
run!"

Thursday morning. After a tremendous
night of crowding, shouting, drinking-house
expectoration, Gong-donkey, and correct
cards. Symptoms of yesterday's gains in the
way of drink, and of yesterday's losses in the
way of money, abundant. Money-losses very
great. As usual, nobody seems to have won;
but, large losses and many losers are
unquestionable facts. Both Lunatics and Keepers,
in general very low. Several of both kinds
look in at the chemist's while Mr. Goodchild
is making a purchase there, to be "picked
up." One red-eyed Lunatic, flushed, faded,
and disordered, enters hurriedly and cries
savagely, "Hond us a gloss of sal volatile in
wather, or soom dommed thing o'thot sart!"
Faces at the Betting-Rooms very long, and a
tendency to bite nails observable. Keepers
likewise given this morning to standing about
solitary, with their hands in their pockets,
looking down at their boots as they fit them
into cracks of the pavement, and then looking
up whistling and walking away. Grand
Alliance Circus out, in procession; buxom
lady-member of Grand Alliance, in crimson
riding-habit, fresher to look at, even in her
paint under the day sky, than the cheeks of
Lunatics or Keepers. Spanish Cavalier
appears to have lost yesterday, and jingles his
bossed bridle with disgust, as if he were
paying. Re-action also apparent at the
Guildhall opposite, whence certain pickpockets
come out handcuffed together, with that
peculiar walk which is never seen under any
other circumstances—a walk expressive of
going to jail, game, but still of jails being in bad
taste and arbitrary, and how would you like it
if it was you instead of me, as it ought to be!
Mid-day. Town filled as yesterday, but not
so full; and emptied as yesterday, but not so
empty. In the evening, Angel ordinary
where every Lunatic and Keeper has his
modest daily meal of turtle, venison, and
wine, not so crowded as yesterday, and
not so noisy. At night, the theatre.
More abstracted faces in it, than one ever
sees at public assemblies; such faces wearing
an expression which strongly reminds Mr.
Goodchild of the boys at school who were
"going up next," with their arithmetic
or mathematics. These boys are, no doubt,
going up to-morrow with their sums and
figures. Mr. Palmer and Mr. Thurtell in
the boxes O. P. Mr. Thurtell and Mr. Palmer
in the boxes P. S. The firm of Thurtell,
Palmer, and Thurtell, in the boxes Centre.
A most odious tendency observable in these
distinguished gentlemen to put vile constructions
on sufficiently innocent phrases in the
play, and then to applaud them in a Satyr-like
manner. Behind Mr. Goodchild, with a
party of other Lunatics and one Keeper, the
express incarnation of the thing called a
"gent." A gentleman born; a gent
manufactured. A something with a scarf round
its neck, and a slipshod speech issuing from
behind the scarf; more depraved, more
foolish, more ignorant, more unable to believe
in any noble or good thing of any kind, than
the stupidest Bosjesman. The thing is but a
boy in years, and is addled with drink. To do
its company justice, even its company is
ashamed of it, as it drawls its slang criticisms
on the representation, and inflames Mr.
Goodchild with a burning ardour to fling it
into the pit. Its remarks are so horrible,
that Mr. Goodchild, for the moment, even
doubts whether that is a wholesome Art,
which sets women apart on a high floor before
such a thing as this, though as good as its own
sisters, or its own mother—whom Heaven
forgive for bringing it into the world! But,
the consideration that a low nature must
make a low world of its own to live in,
whatever the real materials, or it could
no more exist than any of us could without
the sense of touch, brings Mr. Goodchild to
reason: the rather, because the thing soon
drops its downy chin upon its scarf, and
slobbers itself asleep.

Friday Morning. Early fights. Gong-
donkey, and correct cards. Again, a great
set towards the races, though not so great a
set as on Wednesday. Much packing going
on too, upstairs at the gunsmith's, the wax-
chandler's, and the serious stationer's; for
there will be a heavy drift of Lunatics and
Keepers to London by the afternoon train.
The course as pretty as ever; the great
pincushion as like a pincushion, but not nearly
so full of pins; whole rows of pins wanting.
On the great event of the day, both
Lunatics and Keepers become inspired with
rage; and there is a violent scuffling, and a
rushing at the losing jockey, and an
emergence of the said jockey from a swaying and