notice of the Rev. C. Colton will be found in the sequel.

'We gamble in England at the Stock Exchange, we gamble on horse-races
all the year round; but there is something more than the mere
eventuality of a chance that prompts us to the _enjeu;_ there is
mixed up with our eagerness for the stakes the most varied elements
of business and pleasure; cash-books, ledgers, divident-warrants,
indignation meetings of Venezuelan bond-holders, coupons, cases of
champagne, satin-skinned horses with plaited manes, grand stands, pretty
faces, bright flags, lobster salads, cold lamb, fortune-telling gipsies,
barouches-and-four, and "our Aunt Sally." High play is still rife in
some aristocratic clubs; there are prosperous gentlemen who wear clean
linen every day, and whose names are still in the Army List, who make
their five or six hundred a year by Whist-playing, and have nothing else
to live upon; in East-end coffee-shops, sallow-faced Jew boys, itinerant
Sclavonic jewellers, and brawny German sugar-bakers, with sticky
hands, may be found glozing and wrangling over their beloved cards and
dominoes, and screaming with excitement at the loss of a few pence.
There are yet some occult nooks and corners, nestling in unsavoury
localities, on passing which the policeman, even in broad daylight,
cannot refrain from turning his head a little backwards--as though
some bedevilments must necessarily be taking place directly he has
passed--where, in musty back parlours, by furtive lamplight, with doors
barred, bolted, and sheeted with iron, some wretched, cheating gambling
goes on at unholy hours. Chicken-hazard is scotched, not killed; but a
poor, weazened, etiolated biped is that once game-bird now. And there
is Doncaster, every year--Doncaster, with its subscription-rooms under
authority, winked at by a pious corporation, patronized by nobles and
gentlemen supporters of the turf, and who are good enough, sometimes, to
make laws for us plebeians in the Houses of Lords and Commons. There
is Doncaster, with policemen to keep order, and admit none but
"respectable" people--subscribers, who fear Heaven and honour the Queen.
Are you aware, my Lord Chief-Justice, are you aware, Mr Attorney, Mr
Solicitor-General, have you the slightest notion, ye Inspectors of
Police, that in the teeth of the law, and under its very eyes, a
shameless gaming-house exists in moral Yorkshire, throughout every
Doncaster St Leger race-week? Of course you haven't; never