in the world upon the rough heap of goods which his tribe wager on the result of a pony race.  Look high, look low, and we see that the gamblers actually form the majority of the world’s inhabitants; and we must go among the men of abstractions—­the men who can achieve oblivion by dint of their own thinking power—­before we find any class untouched by the strange taint.  Observe that venerable looking man who slowly paces about in one of the luxurious dwelling-places which are sacred to leisure; you may see his type at Bath, Buxton, Leamington, Scarborough, Brighton, Torquay, all places, indeed, whither flock the men whose life-work is done.  That venerable gentleman has fulfilled his task in the world, his desires have been gratified so far as fortune would allow, and one would think that most pursuits of the competitive sort must have lost interest for him.  Yet he—­even he—­cannot get rid of the tendency to gamble; and he studies the financial news with the eagerness of a boy who follows the fortunes of Quentin Durward or D’Artagnan or Rebecca.  If English railway shares fall, he is exultant or depressed, according to the operations of his broker; he may be roused into almost hysterical delight by a rise in “Nitrates” or “Chilians,” or any of the thousands of securities in which stockbrokers deal.  What is it to the old man if Death smiles gently on him, and will soon touch his heart with ice?  There is no past for him; he has forgotten the raptures of youth, the strength of manhood, the depression of failure, the gladness of success, and he drugs his soul into forgetfulness by dwelling on a gambler’s chances.  So long as the one doubtful boon of forgetfulness is secured, it seems to matter very little what may be the stake at disposal.  The English racing-man picks out a promising colt or filly; he finds that he has a swift and good animal, and he resolves to bring off some vast gambling coup.  Patiently, cunningly, month after month, the steps in the plan are matured; the horse runs badly until the official handicappers think it is worthless, and the gambler at last finds that he has some great prize almost at his mercy.  Then with slow dexterity the horse is backed to win.  If the owner shows any eagerness, his purpose is balked once and for all; he may have to employ half-a-dozen agents to bet for him, until at last he succeeds in wagering so much money that he will gain, say, one hundred thousand pounds by winning his race.  The fluttering jackets come nearer and nearer to the judge’s box; some of the jockeys are using their whips and riding desperately; the horse on which so much depends draws to the front; but the owner never moves a muscle.  Of course we have seen men shrieking themselves almost into apoplexy at the close of a race; but the hardened gambler is deadly cool.  In the last stride the animal so carefully—­and fraudulently—­prepared is beaten by a matter of a few inches, and the chance of picking up a hundred thousand pounds is gone; but