mischief. Enter the saloon of the Landcrab, at
whatever hour you like of the day or evening
(before, of course, all the lights in the ship
are put out), and you will find the Dons hard
at play. And for no paltry stakes be it understood,
but for round sums of the bilious-looking
doubloons, for handfuls of the gold-dust
that is like saffron, and for the golden ingots
that are like pigs of lead. There is no need
for surreptitious gaming here; for on board
the Landcrab gaming is looked upon as an
institution, as one of the natural products of
that hot, passionate, excitable region, the I
Spanish Main—as a natural consequence and
characteristic of men whose native home is on
Tom Tiddler's Ground, who dwell on the
banks of the Pactolus, and are connected with
the Crœsus family. Gambling is thought to be
as indigenous to the Brazils as milreas,
diamond mines, and the close-tufted forests of
gigantic trees where the many-hued parrots
scream, where the humming-bird is alive and
hums; where the bird of paradise, undegraded
by being made a plume for a dowager's turban,
soughs down gently to earth through the |
interlaced branches; where the lithe monkeys,
some big as men, some tiny as mice, leap
chattering and gibing from branch to branch,
and where there springs up in the underwood
a myriad vegetation such as Linnæus never
dreamt of, and such as would puzzle Professor
Lindley to take nature-prints of, were he to
spend his whole life in the attempt.

It comes not, just now, within the province
of these aspects of gambling to figure to you
how the grave Sir Rufus Redhead, K.C.B.,
Governor of the Island of St. Febris, going
out to his government in the Shaddock
steamer, Captain Arrowroot (the mortal
remains of the last governor, Sir Naylor Croke,
were brought home, neatly preserved in
spirits, in the Landcrab), lost upwards of two
thousand pounds sterling to Don Thomas
Aliboro Benvisto Quintal y Ruiz y Lomano y
Diaz y Castellan y Marmora, of Carthagena.
Nor would it be edifying to tell you how the
Hebrew speculator of Rio Janeiro, Don
Rafaelle Peixotto, gambled away the entire
stock of gold epaulettes, sword-knots, sashes,
and lace which he was taking out to Brazil
with a special view to the benefit of the
officers of the Brazilian army. Let those
byegones sleep. His Excellency Sir Rufus
will never mention his little losses at
government-house St. Febris, and Don
Rafaelle Peixotto lias long since had his
financial revenge out of other matters besides
epaulettes. Also will we drop the curtain
upon the catastrophe of poor Bob Clovers,
who had been clerk in a merchant's house
at Rio, and who coming home after his
third fever (he took too much aguardiente),
and getting deep in play with the Vicomte
de Carambolaro, foolishly gave him a bill for a
large amount in payment of losses, and was
positively sold up and arrested three weeks
after he had landed at Southampton.

The Vicomte de Carambolaro! I had once
the honour—no; I can't conscientiously say
the honour—but I was once acquainted with
that nobleman. It was but an equivocal,
cloudy, at-long-dates—renewable, box-lobby,
race-course, smoking-room, table-d'hote,
lazaretto, railway-train, shy-society sort of
acquaintance at most. In short, we knew of,
rather than knew, each other: still, at one
time, I used to see a good deal of the Vicomte
de Carambolaro. He was over six feet in
height, and one of the handsomest of men.
He had been originally, I believe, a Frenchman;
but he had made so many (gambling)
campaigns in different countries that
he spoke French, English, Italian, German,
Spanish, and Portuguese with equal
ease and fluency, and had quite lost his
nationality. He said that he was the best
small-swordsman in Europe, and I have no
reason to doubt his word. He danced
beautifully; drew portraits, horses, and
caricatures with grace and vigour; rode fearlessly;
played the piano and guitar with taste and
feeling, and swam like a duck. I don't think he
could read or write much; but he could draw
up a challenge and sign his name to a bill, and
this was all the scholarship required of him.
He was an irretrievable scoundrel. He was,
very probably, a real viscount, which does
not militate from his scoundrelism one iota.
He was, by profession, a " mace-man,"—by
which, I mean, that he lived at the best
hotels, drank the most expensive wines; went
frequently abroad; travelled a great deal in
first-class carriages; wore the best clothes
and a great deal of jewellery; continually
changed sovereigns, and had no ostensible
means of obtaining a livelihood. Of course,
when you see a man who lives at the rate of
five pounds a day upon an income of nothing
a-year, you naturally infer that he " shakes
his elbow," i.e., that he gambles. This, I
should say, the Vicomte de Carambola did
rather extensively.

I lost sight of the viscount for a considerable
period of time. It chanced, however.
one day, that it behoved me to call upon him
on business—upon my word I think it was
about a bill—which, together with a horse, a
lady, a gambling debt, and a duel, were the
only subjects about which you could possibly
have business with the viscount. I traced him
from hotel to hotel, and from lodging to
lodging (he always lodged in aristocratic
streets), till I was directed to a fashionable
tailor's in Conduit Street. I am a man of a
placid demeanour and nervous temperament,
and after knocking in vain for some time at
the tailor's private door I entered the shop,
and asked meekly if the Vicomte de
Carambolaro lived there. Suddenly there leaped
down from a high desk a little man with a
bald head and a yard measure hanging round
his neck. He advanced towards me in a
series of short jumps, brandishing a
tremendous pair of shears very much as a