bank; but from first to last--that is, till the cards ran out, and he left the table--he was steadily victorious. In the evening he went in again for another heavy bout, at which I chanced to be present; but fortune had forsaken him; and he not only lost his morning's winnings, but eight thousand francs to boot. I do not remember to have ever seen the tables so crowded--outside it was thundering, lightening, and raining as if the world were coming to an end, and the whole floating population of Wiesbaden was driven into the Kursaal by the weather. A roaring time of it had the bank; when play was over, about which time the rain ceased, hundreds of hot and thirsty gamblers streamed out of the reeking rooms to the glazed-in terrace, and the next hour, always the pleasantest of the twenty-four here and in Hombourg--at Ems people go straight from the tables to bed,--was devoted to animated chat and unlimited sherry-cobbler; all the "events" of the day were passed in review, experiences exchanged, and confessions made. Nobody had won; I could not hear of a single great success--the bank had had it all its own way, and most of the "lions," worsted in the fray, had evidently made up their minds to "drown it in the bowl." The Russian detachment--a very strong one this year--was especially hard hit; Spain and Italy were both unusually low-spirited; and there was an extra solemnity about the British Isles that told its own sad tale. Englishmen, when they have lost more than they can afford, generally take it out of themselves in surly, brooding self-reproach. Frenchmen give vent to their disgust and annoyance by abusing the game and its myrmidons. You may hear them, loud and savage, on the terrace, "Ah! le salle jeu! comment peut-on se laisser eplucher par des brigands de la sorte! Tripot, infame, va! je te donne ma malediction!" Italians, again, endeavour to conceal their discomfiture under a flow of feverish gaiety. Germans utter one or two "Gotts donnerwetterhimmelsapperment!" light up their cigars, drink a dozen or so "hocks," and subside into their usual state of ponderous cheerfulness. Russians betray no emotion whatever over their calamities, save, perhaps, that they smoke those famous little 'Laferme' cigarettes a trifle faster and more nervously than at other times; but they are excellent winners and magnificent losers, only to be surpassed in either respect by their old enemy the Turk, who is _facile princeps_ in the art of hiding his feelings from the outer world.