tion; wisdom dwells in her gates. Another
aristocracy, that of talent, he recognizes and applauds. No dullard ever
succeeds, no genius goes unrewarded.

It is the part of the story-teller to make his story a probable one to
the listener, no matter how impossible both character and situation. Mr.
Disraeli was accredited with the faculty of persuading himself to
believe or disbelieve whatever he liked; and did he possess the same
power over his readers, these entertaining volumes would lift him to the
highest rank the novelist attains. As it is, he does not quite succeed
in creating an illusion, and we are conscious of two lobes in the
author's brain; in one sits a sentimentalist, in the other a
mocking devil.

[Illustration: Signature: Isa Carrington Cabell.]

A DAY AT EMS

From 'Vivian Grey'

"I think we'd better take a little coffee now; and then, if you like,
we'll just stroll into the REDOUTE" [continued Baron de Konigstein].

In a brilliantly illuminated saloon, adorned with Corinthian columns,
and casts from some of the most famous antique statues, assembled
between nine and ten o'clock in the evening many of the visitors at Ems.
On each side of the room was placed a long, narrow table, one of which
was covered with green baize, and unattended, while the variously
colored leather surface of the other was very closely surrounded by an
interested crowd. Behind this table stood two individuals of very
different appearance. The first was a short, thick man, whose only
business was dealing certain portions of playing cards with quick
succession, one after the other; and as the fate of the table was
decided by this process, did his companion, an extremely tall, thin man,
throw various pieces of money upon certain stakes, which were deposited
by the bystanders on different parts of the table; or, which was more
often the case, with a silver rake with a long ebony handle, sweep into
a large inclosure near him the scattered sums. This inclosure was called
the bank, and the mysterious ceremony in which these persons were
assisting was the celebrated game of _rouge-et-noir._ A deep silence was
strictly observed by those who immediately surrounded the table; no
voice was heard save that of the little, short, stout dealer, when,
without an expression of the least interest, he seemed mechanically to
announce the fate of the different colors. No other sound was heard save
the jingle of the dollars and napoleons, and the