ch a life must be? The pursuit
and conquest of twopence must be the most eager and fascinating of
occupations. We might all engage in that business if we would. Do not
whist-players, for example, toil, and think, and lose their temper over
sixpenny points? They bring study, natural genius, long forethought,
memory, and careful historical experience to bear upon their favorite
labor. Don't tell me that it is the sixpenny points, and five shillings
the rub, which keeps them for hours over their painted pasteboard. It
is the desire to conquer. Hours pass by. 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 se