As White's two bottles of Burgundy and a pack of cards
constitute all the joys of your life, I take for granted that you are in
London at this moment, preferring smoke and faro to fresh air and fresh
haystacks. This will be delivered to you by a young gentleman with whom
I have lately made acquaintance, and whom you will be charmed to know.
He will play with you at any game for any stake, up to any hour of the
night, and drink any reasonable number of bottles during the play.
Mr. Warrington is no other than the Fortunate Youth about whom so many
stories have been told in the Public Advertiser and other prints. He
has an estate in Virginia as big as Yorkshire, with the incumbrance of a
mother, the reigning Sovereign; but, as the country is unwholesome, and
fevers plentiful, let us hope that Mrs. Esmond will die soon, and
leave this virtuous lad in undisturbed possession. She is aunt of that
polisson of a Castlewood, who never pays his play-debts, unless he is
more honourable in his dealings with you than he has been with me. Mr.
W. is de bonne race. We must have him of our society, if it be only that
I may win my money back from him.

"He has had the devil's luck here, and has been winning everything,
whilst his old card-playing beldam of an aunt has been losing. A few
nights ago, when I first had the ill-luck to make his acquaintance, he
beat me in jumping (having practised the art amongst the savages, and
running away from bears in his native woods); he won bets off me and
Jack Morris about my weight; and at night, when we sat down to play, at
old Bernstein's, he won from us all round. If you can settle our last
Epsom account please hand over to Mr. Warrington 350 pounds, which I
still owe him, after pretty well emptying my pocket-book. Chesterfield
has dropped six hundred to him, too; but his lordship does not wish
to have it known, having sworn to give up play and live cleanly. Jack
Morris, who has not been hit as hard as either of us, and can afford it
quite as well, for the fat chuff has no houses nor train to keep up, and
all his misbegotten father's money in hand, roars like a bull of Bashan
about his losses. We had a second night's play, en petit comite, and
Barbeau served us a fair dinner in a private room. Mr. Warrington
holds his tongue like a gentleman, and none of us have talked about our
losses; but the whole place does, for us. Yesterday the Cattarina looked
as sulky as thunder, because I would not give he