heerful persons engaged in this sport, perhaps a
good way of playing it would be to spread it over a couple of years.
Let the people who played the game in '60 all meet and play it once
more in '61, and each write his story over again. Then bring out your
original and compare notes. Not only will the stories differ from each
other, but the writers will probably differ from themselves. In the
course of the year the incidents will grow or will dwindle strangely.
The least authentic of the statements will be so lively or so
malicious, or so neatly put, that it will appear most like the truth. I
like these tales and sportive exercises. I had begun a little print
collection once. I had Addison in his nightgown in bed at Holland
House, requesting young Lord Warwick to remark how a Christian should
die. I had Cambronne clutching his cocked hat, and uttering the
immortal _La Garde meurt et ne se rend pas_. I had the _Vengeur_ going
down, and all the crew hurraying like madmen. I had Alfred toasting the
muffin: Curtius (Haydon) jumping into the gulf; with extracts from
Napoleon's bulletins, and a fine authentic portrait of Baron
Munchausen.

What man who has been before the public at all has not heard similar
wonderful anecdotes regarding himself and his own history? In these
humble essaykins I have taken leave to egotize. I cry out about the
shoes which pinch me, and, as I fancy, more naturally and pathetically
than if my neighbour's corns were trodden under foot. I prattle about
the dish which I love, the wine which I like, the talk I heard
yesterday--about Brown's absurd airs--Jones's ridiculous elation when
he thinks he has caught me in a blunder (a part of the fun, you see, is
that Jones will read this, and will perfectly well know that I mean
him, and that we shall meet and grin at each other with entire
politeness). This is not the highest kind of speculation, I confess,
but it is a gossip which amuses some folks. A brisk and honest
small-beer will refresh those who do not care for the frothy
outpourings of heavier taps. A two of clubs may be a good handy little
card sometimes, and able to tackle a king of diamonds, if it is a
little trump. Some philosophers get their wisdom with deep thought, and
out of ponderous libraries; I pick up my small crumbs of cogitation at
a dinner-table; or from Mrs. Mary and Miss Louisa, as they are
prattling over their five-o'clock tea.

Well, yesterday at dinner, Jucundus was good enough