dressed still like a boy, yet some
vowed he was eighty. He must have been Salathiel. Property he never had,
and yet he contrived to live; connection he was not born with, yet he
was upheld by a set. He never played, yet he was the most skilful dealer
going. He did the honours of a _rouge et noir_ table to a miracle; and
looking, as he thought, most genteel in a crimson waistcoat and a
gold chain, raked up the spoils, or complacently announced apres. Lord
Castlefort had few secrets from him: he was the jackal to these prowling
beasts of prey; looked out for pigeons, got up little parties to
Richmond or Brighton, sang a song when the rest were too anxious to make
a noise, and yet desired a little life, and perhaps could cog a die,
arrange a looking-glass, or mix a tumbler.

Unless the loss of an occasional napoleon at a German watering-place
is to be so stigmatised, gaming had never formed one of the numerous
follies of the Duke of St. James. Rich, and gifted with a generous,
sanguine, and luxurious disposition, he had never been tempted by
the desire of gain, or as some may perhaps maintain, by the desire of
excitement, to seek assistance or enjoyment in a mode of life which
stultifies all our fine fancies, deadens all our noble emotions, and
mortifies all our beautiful aspirations.

We know that we are broaching a doctrine which many will start at, and
which some will protest against, when we declare our belief that no
person, whatever his apparent wealth, ever yet gamed except from the
prospect of immediate gain. We hear much of want of excitement, of
ennui, of satiety; and then the gaming-table is announced as a sort
of substitute for opium, wine, or any other mode of obtaining a more
intense vitality at the cost of reason. Gaming is too active, too
anxious, too complicated, too troublesome; in a word, _too sensible_ an
affair for such spirits, who fly only to a sort of dreamy and indefinite
distraction.

The fact is, gaming is a matter of business. Its object is tangible,
clear, and evident. There is nothing high, or inflammatory, or exciting;
no false magnificence, no visionary elevation, in the affair at all. It
is the very antipodes to enthusiasm of any kind. It pre-supposes in its
votary a mind essentially mercantile. All the feelings that are in its
train are the most mean, the most commonplace, and the most annoying
of daily life, and nothing would tempt the gamester to experience them
except the great objec