on; they asked me to join them; I declined, and professed ignorance of the game; but their importunities became more pressing, and at last troublesome.  Not a word further was said of the palace admission.  I now judged it time to take my leave, and advancing towards the door for that purpose, I perceived my companions moved also:  I profited by the hint, and seizing the handle of the door, thanked them for their civility, assured them I could wait no longer, but would call in half-an-hour—­leaped down the stairs, and did not stop till I reached Rue Montmartre.  I afterwards learned this was a common street trick in Paris to decoy strangers to the billiard-table, and had I taken the mace in hand, it would most probably have been at the expense of a good dinner for my companions, as a smart for my credulity.

A few evenings subsequent to this common-place incident, I strolled into a house of play in the palais royal, the situation having been previously pointed out to me by a friend.[1] The entrance was through a narrow passage by a silversmith’s shop, on the ground floor, at the end of which a strong light shone through the figures denoting the number of the house, largely cut in tin; alas! thought I, a fatal number to many thousands.  On the principal landing, being that above the entre-sol story, I gently tapped at a handsome door, which was almost as gently opened.  My friend (for I was not alone,) having deposited his hat and stick with the garcon, was allowed to pass, but I was stopped for want of—­whiskers; till assuring him that I was older than he took me to be, and an Englishman—­I was also permitted to pass.  We first entered a small room, in which was a roulette-table surrounded by players, and well staked:  this communicated by folding-doors with a spacious saloon with a double table for Trente-et-un, or Rouge et Noir, round which were seated the players, behind whom stood a few lookers-on, and still fewer young men, whose stakes were “few and far between,”—­probably those of cautious adventurers, or novices pecking at the first-fruits of play.  Nothing is better described in books than the folly of gaming, and the sufferings of its victims; but, like Virgil, in his picture of Heaven, they fall short in describing their extasies; a failing on the right side, or perhaps purposely made, for the happiness of mankind.  The seated visitors here seemed to be quite at home, some picking up their Napoleons and five franc pieces, and others recording the issues of the game, and illustrating the doctrine of chances by pricking holes in cards.  A death-like stillness prevailed, interrupted only by the monotonous result of the deal of the cards, and the bewitching, though not frequent chink of gold and silver.  The success of the winners was as silent as the disappointment of the losers; neither joy nor grief displaying itself otherwise than in an almost unvaried tristesse on the countenances