There nightingales in unprun'd copses build, Contemplative, we tread the flowery plain, The hermit thus: "In him the BARD behold, 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 presupposes in its votary a mind essentially mercantile. All the feelings that are in its train are the most mean, the most common-place, and the most annoying of daily life, and nothing would tempt the gamester to experience them, except the great object which, as a matter of calculation, he is willing to aim at on such terms. No man flies to the gamingtable in a paroxysm. The first visit requires the courage of a forlorn hope. The first stake will make the lightest mind anxious, the firmest hand tremble, and the stoutest heart falter. After the first stake, it is all a matter of calculation and management, even in games of chance. Night after night will men play at Rouge et Noir, upon what they call a system, and for hours their attention never ceases, any more than it would if they were in the shop or on the wharf. No manual labour is more fatiguing, and more degrading to the labourer, than gaming. Every gamester (I speak not of the irreclaimable) feels ashamed. And this vice, this worst vice, from whose embrace, moralists daily inform us, man can never escape, is just the one from which the majority of men most completely, and most often, emancipate Unless the loss of an occasional napoleon at themselves. Infinite are the men who have a German watering-place is to be so stigma- lost thousands in their youth, and never dream tized, gaming had never formed one of the of chance again. It is this pursuit which, oftnumerous follies of the Duke of St. James. ener than any other, leads man to self-knowRich, and gifted with a generous, sanguine, ledge. Appalled by the absolute destruction and luxurious disposition, he had never been on the verge of which he finds his early youth tempted by the desire of gain, or, as some may just stepping; aghast at the shadowy crimes perhaps maintain, by the desire of excitement, which, under the influence of this life, seem, to seek assistance or enjoyment in a mode of as it were, to rise upon his soul, often he hurlife which stultifies all our fine fancies, dead-ries to emancipate himself from this fatal ens all our noble emotions, and mortifies all our beautiful aspirations. A GAMING MATCH. BY THE RIGHT HON. BENJAMIN D'ISRAELI. I know that I am broaching a doctrine which many will start at, and which some will protest against, when I declare my belief, that no person, whatever be his rank, or 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, thraldom, and with a ruined fortune, and marred prospects, yet thanks his Creator that his soul is still white, his conscience clear, and that, once more, he breathes the sweet air of heaven. And our young duke, I must confess, gamed, as all other men have gamed-for money, His satiety had fled the moment that his af fairs were embarrassed. The thought suddenly came into his head, while Bagshot was speaking. He determined to make an effort to recover, and so completely was it a matter of business with him, that he reasoned that, in the present state of his affairs, a few thou sands more would not signify,—that these few thousands might lead to vast results, and that, if they did, he would bid adieu to the gamingtable with the same coolness with which he had saluted it. The young duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace, assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to Ecarte. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed a general understanding among all the parties, that to-night was to be a pitched battle, and they began at once very briskly. Yet, in spite of their universal determination, midnight arrived without anything very decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the baron's elbow, and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room. stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make a tumbler for them. At eight o'clock, the duke's situation was worsened. The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. He pulled up again the next hour or two; but nevertheless at ten o'clock owed every one something. No one offered to give over; and every one, perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toilettes, and went down stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters were opened, the room aired; and in less than an hour they were at it again. They played till dinner time without intermission; and though the duke made some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner, and was not at all depressed; because the more he lost, the more his courage and his resources seemed to expand. At first, he had limited himself to ten thousand; after breakfast, it was to have been twenty thousand; then, thirty thousand was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts of limits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything. At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now began to be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating, he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery, and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun He is over: there is nothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degraded feelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has no charms, seems to your cowed mind impossible. Gaming has one advantage-it gives you an appetite; that is to say, as long as you have a chance remaining. The duke had thousands, --for at present, his resources were unimpaired, and he was exhausted by the constant attention and anxiety of five hours. passed over the delicacies, and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself some cold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his grace, but to the baron, to announce the shocking fact, that the Duke of St. James was enduring great trouble; and then the baron asked his grace to permit Mr. Cogit to serve him. Our hero devoured-I use the word advisedly, as fools say in the House of Commons-he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting the hermitage with disgust, asked for porter. They set to again, fresh as eagles. At six o'clock, accounts were so complicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played with his memorandums and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened. The duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Grace owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor, to the tune of seven hundred and fifty, and the baron was in his books, but slightly. Every half hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw the used ones on the floor. All this time, Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the candles, On they played, and the duke lost more. His mind was jaded. He floundered-he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough. Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, he acted on each as if it must win, and the consequences of this insanity (for a gamester, at such a crisis, is really insane) were, that his losses were prodigious. There Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle deep in cards. No attempt at breakfast now-no affectation of making a toilette, or airing the room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became such a Hell. they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness of everything but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not a man in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name of the town in which they were living. There they sat almost breathless, watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes, which showed their total inabil ity to sympathize with their fellow-beings. of everything that was pure, and holy, and All forms of society had been long forgotten. beautiful, and luminous, and calm. It was There was no snuff-box handed about now, for the innate virtue of the man that made this courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation appeal to his corrupted nature. His losses of occasionally making a remark upon any seemed nothing; his dukedom would be too other topic but the all-engrossing one. Lord slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, Castlefort rested with his arms on the table:- and for the breath of the sweet air. a false tooth had got unhinged. His lordship, who at any other time would have been most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheeks had fallen, and he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn off his cravat, and his hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, straight as silk. Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted by lightning; and his deep blue eyes gleamed like a hyæna. The baron was least changed. Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed rat. On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed to desist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord Castlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While they were resting on their oars, the young duke roughly made up his accounts. He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds. Immense as the loss was, he was more struck, -more appalled, let me say,-at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his own ruin. As he looked upon his fellowgamesters, he seemed, for the first time in his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom he had read. He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to have fallen over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He had pursued a dissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many were the nights that had been spent by him not on his couch; great had been the exhaustion that he had often experienced; haggard had sometimes even been the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon his brow this harrowing care? when had his features before been stamped with this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strange, unearthly scowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible?-it could not be-that in time he was to be like those awful, those unearthly, those unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as if he had fallen from his state,-as if he had dishonoured his ancestry,- -as if he had betrayed his trust. He felt a criminal. the darkness of his meditations, a flash burst from his lurid mind,—a celestial light appeared to dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as it were bathed with the softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre; he thought In He advanced to the baron, and expressed his desire to play no more. There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done. Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged him to have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result,-had no doubt he would recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seated himself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts, Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort, in the most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same time recommending the duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he was cool. Lord Dice received his with a bow,-Temple Grace with a sigh, the baron, with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge. The duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with any evidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated, Pay us when we meet again," he said: "I think it very improbable that we shall meet again, my lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I had heard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am a young man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion." He reached his house. He gave orders for himself not to be disturbed, and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. What rack exceeds the torture of an excited brain, and an exhausted body? His hands and feet were like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung with supernatural roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain, in vain he had recourse to every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute he started from his pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his late fearful society. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace; each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was only a signal to cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was at length morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained any longer in bed, he rose and paced his chamber. The air refreshed him. He threw himself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, and he slept. SIR GILES OVERREACH. [Philip Massinger, born at Salisbury, 1584; died in London, March, 1639. Dramatist. Educated at Oxford. The historian Hallam says: "Massinger as a tragic writer appears to me second only to Shakspeare; in the higher comedy I can hardly think him inferior to Jonson." He wrote many plays in conjunction with Fletcher and others; and thirty-seven were entirely his own productions. Of these all save nineteen were destroyed by a stupid servant who used the MSS. for lighting fires. The first collected edition of Massinger's plays was prepared by William Gifford; and a new edition from Gifford's text was issued in 1870 by Lieut. Col. F. Cunningham (Warne & Co.) The Virgin Martyr; The Duke of Milan; The Bondman; The Maid of Honour; The Fatal Dowry; The City Madam; A Very Woman; The Bashful Lover; and A New Way to Pay Old Debts-from which the following passages are taken -are the most important of the plays still in existence.] [Sir Giles Overreach is a cruel extortioner who has helped to ruin his prodigal nephew Frank Wellborn. The latter obtains the assistance of a rich widow, Lady Allworth, to deceive his uncle, who, fancying that Wellborn is about to wed the lady, refills the spendthrift's coffers. At the same time Overreach is eager to marry his daughter Margaret to Lord Lovell. Lovell appears to favour the match, but only does so in order to secure Margaret's hand for his page and friend Tom Allworth. Justice Greedy is a creature of the usurer's, but has no thought beyond his stomach; Marrall, an attorney, is another of Overreach's tools, but betrays him in the end, and helps to bring about his discomfiture.] SCENE. A Room in LADY ALLWORTH's House. Enter LORD LOVELL and ALLWORTH. Lov. 'Tis well; give me my cloak; I now discharge you From further service: mind your own affairs, I hope they will prove successful. All. What is blest With your good wish, my lord, cannot but prosper. How much I stand engaged, for I want language Lov. Nay, do not melt: This ceremonial thanks to me's superfluous. Lov. 'Tis he! oh, here's your letter: let him in. Enter OVERREACH, GREEDY, and MARRALL. Over. A good day to my lord! Over. And reason, to attend your lordship. I cannot sleep, for I have a foolish stomach That croaks for breakfast. With your lordship's favour, I have a serious question to demand Lov. Pray you use your pleasure. Greedy. How far, Sir Giles, and pray you answer me Upon your credit, hold you it to be From your manor-house, to this of my lady Allworth's? Greedy. How! four mile, good Sir Giles- Mar. Whether you ride, Or go afoot, you are that way still provided, Over. How now, sirrah? prating Before my lord! no difference! Go to my nephew, Toss'd like a dog still! Lov. I have writ this morning [Aside, and exit. A few lines to my mistress, your fair daughter. My honourable, nay, right honourable daughter. Greedy. Take my advice, young gentleman, get your breakfast; "Tis unwholesome to ride fasting: I'll eat with you, And eat to purpose. Over. Some Fury's in that gut: Hungry again! did you not devour, this morning, A shield of brawn, and a barrel of Colchester oysters? Greedy. Why, that was, sir, only to scour my stomach, A kind of a preparative. Come, gentleman, I will not have you feed like the hangman of Flushing, Alone, while I am here. Lov. Haste your return. All. I will not fail, my lord. Greedy. Nor I, to line My Christmas coffer. [Exeunt GREEDY and ALLWORTH. Over. To my wish: we are private. I come not to make offer with my daughter With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have What's by unjust and cruel means extorted; Over. You run, my lord, no hazard. Nor can my actions, though condemn'd for ill, Over. Yes, as rocks are, When foamy billows split themselves against Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved, When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her bright ness. I am of a solid temper, and, like these, Steer on, a constant course: with mine own sword, If call'd into the field, I can make that right, I only think what 'tis to have my daughter Lov. I admire The toughness of your nature. Over. 'Tis for you, My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble; In my arrival to my wealth these dark And crooked ways, than you shall e'er take pleasure In spending what my industry hath compass'd. My haste commands me hence; in one word, therefore, Is it a match? Lov. I hope, that is past doubt now. Over. Then rest secure; not the hate of all mankind here, Nor fear of what can fall on me hereafter, Lov. He's gone-I wonder how the earth can bear [The means which Overreach has taken to effect the speedy and secret marriage of his daughter to Lord Lovell, enable Margaret and Allworth to become man and wife.] Enter ALLWORTH and MARGARET. Marg. Sir, first your pardon, then your blessing, with Your full allowance of the choice I have made. |