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.

`The great mass of visitors at Wiesbaden this season, as at