Cicero, in Elysio, jucunditatem imbibens,
Portero, gaudiorum janitori
Temporum spiritui, magnifico, carissimo,
Stadiorum, Wagnerorum, Bostonium, gubernatori,
Equitum omnium magistro registroque
Splendorem abstrahenti omnibus loaferibus ordinariis
L. L. D.—O. K.—&c. &c. &c.
Salutem.
Quantum dolorem acceperim, et quanto fruetu sim privatus
et forensi et domestico,—Cato and Socrates who room with
me take on dreadfully about it,—Aquilæ canæ ab illa dirutione
infelicissima, tertio cursu, te prœsente flenteque, besides the
burst up of the match between Wagner and Boston, and old
Eclipse colting on his former laurels as though he was stadii
functus officio;—and not a heroic stallion to adjure by, on the
course, imprimis, pro nostra consuetudine existimare potes.
Next, all that I have to say, is, that I send you an account of
an old race that was run a little way out of town when I practised
law in Rome. It was just before Cataline abused my
patience so that I had to kick him out of the house. Sceleratus!
Snakes! Infernissimus! Fire and tow! Inter infernos!
I won seven thousand Aurei Denarii—none of your patent
shinplasters—from him upon that race, and the false wretch
refused to fork up. [Between you and me, that was the reason
I came down upon him in that “
Quosque-TANDEM”
style so fulguriously. I rather used him up there. If Pluto
will let him come out, I'll go the same team against him again.
But he must plank the cash.]
Pignus deponere, and then
back out or forget the name of the horse you bet on, and refuse
to let the stake-holder pay over—that's almost as bad as
going—through a friend—against your own nag—call him—
Deafaway—and hammering a tack into his hip bone on the
morning he is to start, and swearing at your trainer for letting
the nails fall out of his shoes upon the stable floor. Pax, equi
perceleririssimi, Westlei Ricardi ultimœ amplisimœque structuræ
bombarda, arundo, hami que fausti, et, maxime, amica sincera
et alma, tecum.
P.S. I have enclosed the documents, I speak of, to my
friend, J. Cypress, Jr., to translate for you. He knows my
“p's” and “q's,” and I don't want my hand to get familiar with
your devils.
P.P.S. Your Spirit comes here very irregularly. I wish
you would write a letter to the C. and Enquirer, and blow up
Amos Kendall, that Loco Foco postmaster. Pretty loco—not
to know better our locus in quo. If existing contracts go on
much more, I shall abandon all hopes of your ever getting a
permanent foothold on Elysian Turf.[2]
Cato sends his best
respects. If you see Colonel Johnson, tell him I've got a new
white hat that I want to bet on against any trifle that he will
run against its fly in a thunder-squall. Why don't he bring
out something? Are American horses good for nothing but
to make smoked beef for soldiers in Florida?—Pax, again,
tecum, et tuo Spiritu. Sing now this.
