The things we do!

The famous English
monosyllable by which things, persons, luck, even eyes, are devoted to
the infernal gods, we may be sure is not wanting in that Babel. Where
does one not hear it? "D--- the luck," says Lord Kew, as the croupier
sweeps off his lordship's rouleaux. "D--- the luck," says Brown the
bagman, who has been backing his lordship with five-franc pieces. "Ah,
body of Bacchus!" says Count Felice, whom we all remember a courier. "Ah,
sacre coup," cries M. le Vicomte de Florac, as his last louis parts
company from him--each cursing in his native tongue. Oh, sweet chorus!
That Lord Kew should be at Baden is no wonder. If you heard of him at the
Finish, or at Buckingham Palace ball, or in a watch-house, or at the
Third Cataract, or at a Newmarket meeting, you would not be surprised. He
goes everywhere; does everything with all his might; knows everybody.
Last week he won who knows how many thousand louis from the bank (it
appears Brown has chosen one of the unlucky days to back his lordship).


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