My dear Bob,--It is quite true, I am a shameful correspondent, and your last three letters now before me, unanswered, comprise a tremendous indictment against me; but reflect for a moment, and you will see that in all complaints of this kind there is a certain amount of injustice, since it is hardly possible ever to find two people whose tastes, habite, and present circumstances place them on such terms of perfect equality that the interchange of letters is as easy for one as the other. Think over this for a moment, and you will perceive that sitting down at your quiet desk, in "No. 2, Old Square," is a different process from snatching a hurried moment amidst the din, the crash, and the conflict of life at Baden; and if _your_ thoughts flow on calmly, tinctured with the solemn influences around you, _mine_ as necessarily reflect an existence checkered by every rainbow hue of good or evil fortune. Be therefore tolerant of my silence and indulgent to my stupidity, since to transmit one's thoughts requires previously that you should think; and who can, or ever could, in a place like this? Imagine a winding valley, with wooded hills rising in some places to the height of mountains, in the midst of which stands a little village--for it is no more--nearly every house of which is a palace, some splendid hotel of France, Russia, or England. You pass from these by a shady alley to a little rustic bridge, over what might be, and very possibly is, an excellent trout-stream, and come at once in front of a magnificent structure, frescoed without and gilded and stuccoed within. "The Rooms," the Temple of Fortune, the ordeal of destiny, Bob, is held here; and the rake of the croupier is the distaff of the Fate. Hither come flocking the representatives of every nation of the world, and of almost every class in each. Royalty, princely houses, and nobility with twenty quarterings, are jostled in the indiscriminate crowd with houseless adventurers, beggared spendthrifts, and ruined debauchees. All who can contribute the clink of their Louis d'or to the music are welcome to this orchestra! And women, too, fair, delicate, and lovely, the tenderest flowers that ever were nursed within domestic care, mixed up with others, not less handsome perhaps, but whose siren beauty is almost diabolic by comparison. What a babel of tongues, and what confusion of characters! The grandee of Spain, the escaped galley-slave, the Hungarian magnate, the London "swell," the old and hoary gambler with snow-white moustaches, and the unfledged minor, anticipating manhood by ruining himself in his "teens." All these are blended and commingled by the influence of play? and, differing as they do in birth, in blood, in lineage, and condition, yet are they members of one guild, associates of one society,--the gambling-table. And what a leveller is play! He who whispers in the ear of the Crown Prince yonder is a branded felon from