There nightingales in unprun'd copses build,
In shaggy furzes lies the hare conceal'd.
Twixt ferns and thistles, unsown flowers amuse,
And form a lucid chase of various hues;
Many half-gray with dust: confus'd they lie,
Scent the rich year, and lead the wandering eye.

Contemplative, we tread the flowery plain,
The muse preceding with her heavenly train:
When, lo! the mendicant, so late behind,
Strange view! now journeying in our front we find!
And yet a view more strange our heed demands;
Touch'd by the muse's wand transform'd he stands.
O'er skin late wrinkled, instant beauty spreads;
The late-dimm'd eye, a vivid lustre sheds;
Hairs, once so thin, now graceful locks decline;
And rags now chang'd in regal vestments shine.

The hermit thus: "In him the BARD behold,
Once seen by midnight's lamp in winter's cold;
The BARD, whose want so multiplied his woes,
He sunk a mortal, and a seraph rose.
See-where those stately yew-trees darkling grow,
And, waving o'er yon graves, brown shadows throw,
Scornful he points-there, o'er his sacred dust,
Arise the sculptur'd tomb, and labour'd bust.
Vain pomp! bestow'd by ostentatious pride,
Who to a life of want relief deny'd."

A GAMING MATCH.

BY THE RIGHT HON. BENJAMIN D'ISRAELI.

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 themselves. Infinite are the men who have lost thousands in their youth, and never dream of chance again. It is this pursuit which, oft

Unless the loss of an occasional napoleon at a German watering-place is to be so stigmatized, gaming had never formed one of the numerous 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 thraldom, and with a ruined fortune, and our beautiful aspirations.

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,- |

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 affairs 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

A GAMING MATCH.

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 gaming. table 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 Another hour without anything very decisive. 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.

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 conHe stant 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 Each they stopped to make up their books. 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 All this time, threw the used ones on the floor. Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff the candles,

stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and oc-
casionally 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
In the meantime
obtained. They made their toilettes, and went
down stairs to breakfast.
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 desYet he ate perate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. 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 and not were eating, he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery, to gain. When you play to win back, the fun 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.

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.

Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle deep in cards. No attempt at breakfast now-no affectation of making a toilette, or The atmosphere was hot, to airing the room. be sure, but it well became such a Hell. There 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 There they sat almost breathless, living. watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes, which showed their total inabil

ity to sympathize with their fellow-beings. All forms of society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-box handed about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectation of occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but the all-engrossing one. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table: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 quieting up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord as a bribed rat.