Night glooms.  Dawn, it may be, rises unheeded; and they sit calling for fresh cards at the “Portland,” or the “Union,” while waning candles splutter in the sockets, and languid waiters snooze in the ante-room.  Sol rises.  Jones has lost four pounds:  Brown has won two; Robinson lurks away to his family house and (mayhap indignant) Mrs. R. Hours of evening, night, morning, have passed away whilst they have been waging this sixpenny battle.  What is the loss of four pounds to Jones, the gain of two to Brown?  B. is, perhaps, so rich that two pounds more or less are as naught to him; J. is so hopelessly involved that to win four pounds cannot benefit his creditors, or alter his condition; but they play for that stake:  they put forward their best energies:  they ruff, finesse (what are the technical words, and how do I know?) It is but a sixpenny game if you like; but they want to win it.  So as regards my friend yonder with the hat.  He stakes his money:  he wishes to win the game, not the hat merely.  I am not prepared to say that he is not inspired by a noble ambition.  Caesar wished to be first in a village.  If first of a hundred yokels, why not first of two?  And my friend the old-clothes’-man wishes to win his game, as well as to turn his little sixpence.

Suppose in the game of life—­and it is but a twopenny game after all—­you are equally eager of winning.  Shall you be ashamed of your ambition, or glory in it?  There are games, too, which are becoming to particular periods of life.  I remember in the days of our youth, when my friend Arthur Bowler was an eminent cricketer.  Slim, swift, strong, well-built, he presented a goodly appearance on the ground in his flannel uniform.  Militasti non sine gloria, Bowler my boy!  Hush!  We tell no tales.  Mum is the word.  Yonder comes Chancy his son.  Now Chancy his son has taken the field and is famous among the eleven of his school.  Bowler senior, with his capacious waistcoat, &c., waddling after a ball, would present an absurd object, whereas it does the eyes good to see Bowler junior scouring the plain—­a young exemplar of joyful health, vigor, activity.  The old boy wisely contents himself with amusements more becoming his age and waist; takes his sober ride; visits his farm soberly—­busies himself about his pigs, his ploughing, his peaches, or what not!  Very small routinier amusements interest him; and (thank goodness!) nature provides very kindly for kindly-disposed fogies.  We relish those things which we scorned in our lusty youth.  I see the young folks of an evening kindling and glowing over their delicious novels.  I look up and watch the eager eye flashing down the page, being, for my part, perfectly contented with my twaddling old volume of “Howel’s Letters,” or the Gentleman’s Magazine.  I am actually arrived at such a calm frame of mind that I like batter-pudding.  I never should have believed it possible; but it is so.  Yet a little while, and I may relish water-gruel.  It will be the age of mon lait de poule et mon bonnet de nuit.  And then—­the cotton extinguisher is pulled over the old noddle, and the little flame of life is popped out.