A century of English essays : $b An anthology ranging from Caxton to R. L. Stevenson & the writers of our own time
General
A century of English essays : $b An anthology ranging from Caxton to R. L. Stevenson & the writers of our own time
English essays; English literature
In this course of even propensity, I was one day persuaded to buy a
ticket in the lottery. The sum was inconsiderable, part was to be
repaid though fortune might fail to favour me, and therefore my
established maxims of frugality did not restrain me from so trifling
an experiment. The ticket lay almost forgotten till the time at which
every man's fate was to be determined; nor did the affairs even then
seem of any importance, till I discovered by the public papers that
the number next to mine had conferred the great prize.
My heart leaped at the thoughts of such an approach of sudden riches,
which I considered myself, however contrarily to the laws of
computation, as having missed by a single chance; and I could not
forbear to revolve the consequences which such a bounteous allotment
would have produced, if it had happened to me. This dream of felicity,
by degrees, took possession of my imagination. The great delight of my
solitary hours was to purchase an estate, and form plantations with
money which once might have been mine, and I never met my friends but
I spoiled their merriment by perpetual complaints of my ill luck.
At length another lottery was opened, and I had now so heated my
imagination with the prospect of a prize, that I should have pressed
among the first purchasers, had not my ardour been withheld by
deliberation upon the probability of success from one ticket rather
than another. I hesitated long between even and off; considered the
square and cubic numbers through the lottery; examined all those to
which good luck had been hitherto annexed; and at last fixed upon one,
which, by some secret relation to the events of my life, I thought
predestined to make me happy. Delay in great affairs is often
mischievous; the ticket was sold, and its possessor could not be
found.
I returned to my conjectures, and after many arts of prognostication,
fixed upon another chance, but with less confidence. Never did
captive, heir, or lover, feel so much vexation from the slow pace of
time, as I suffered between the purchase of my ticket and the
distribution of the prizes. I solaced my uneasiness as well as I
could, by frequent contemplations of approaching happiness; when the
sun arose I knew it would set, and congratulated myself at night that
I was so much nearer to my wishes. At last the day came, my ticket
appeared, and rewarded all my care and sagacity with a despicable
prize of fifty pounds.
My friends, who honestly rejoiced upon my success, were very coldly
received; I hid myself a fortnight in the country, that my chagrin
might fume away without observation, and then returning to my shop,
began to listen after another lottery.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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