e by sundry stands full of Turkish
pipes in cherry-stick and jessamine, with amber mouthpieces; while a
great serpent hookah, from which Frank could no more have smoked than he
could have smoked out of the head of a boa constrictor, coiled itself up
on the floor; over the chimney-piece was a collection of Moorish arms.
What use on earth ataghan and scimitar and damasquined pistols, that
would not carry straight three yards, could be to an officer in
his Majesty's Guards is more than I can conjecture, or even Frank
satisfactorily explain. I have strong suspicions that this valuable
arsenal passed to Frank in part payment of a bill to be discounted. At
all events, if so, it was an improvement on the bear that he had sold
to the hair-dresser. No books were to be seen anywhere, except a Court
Guide, a Racing Calendar, an Army List, the Sporting Magazine complete
(whole bound in scarlet morocco, at about a guinea per volume), and a
small book, as small as an Elzevir, on the chimney-piece, by the side of
a cigar-case. That small book had cost Frank more than all the rest put
together; it was his Own Book, his book par excellence; book made up by
himself,--his BETTING Book!

On a centre table were deposited Frank's well-brushed hat; a satinwood
box, containing kid-gloves, of various delicate tints, from primrose to
lilac; a tray full of cards and three-cornered notes; an opera-glass,
and an ivory subscription-ticket to his opera stall.

In one corner was an ingenious receptacle for canes, sticks, and
whips--I should not like, in these bad times, to have paid the bill for
them; and mounting guard by that receptacle, stood a pair of boots as
bright as Baron Levy's,--"the force of brightness could no further
go." Frank was in his dressing-gown,--very good taste, quite Oriental,
guaranteed to be true Indian cashmere, and charged as such. Nothing
could be more neat, though perfectly simple, than the appurtenances of
his breakfast-table: silver tea-pot, ewer, and basin, all fitting into
his dressing-box--for the which may Storr and Mortimer be now praised,
and some day paid! Frank looked very handsome, rather tired, and
exceedingly bored. He had been trying to read the "Morning Post," but
the effort had proved too much for him.

Poor dear Frank Hazeldean!--true type of many a poor dear fellow who
has long since gone to the dogs. And if, in this road to ruin, there
had been the least thing to do the traveller any credit by the way!