There was the Earl of Castlefort, plump and luxurious, with a youthful
wig, who, though a sexagenarian, liked no companion better than a minor.
His Lordship was the most amiable man in the world, and the most lucky;
but the first was his merit, and the second was not his fault. There was
the juvenile Lord Dice, who boasted of having done his brothers out of
their miserable 5,000L. patrimony, and all in one night. But the wrinkle
that had already ruffled his once clear brow, his sunken eye, and his
convulsive lip, had been thrown, we suppose, into the bargain, and, in
our opinion, made it a dear one. There was Temple Grace, who had run
through four fortunes, and ruined four sisters. Withered, though only
thirty, one thing alone remained to be lost, what he called his honour,
which was already on the scent to play booty. There was Cogit, who, when
he was drunk, swore that he had had a father; but this was deemed the
only exception to _in vino Veritas_. Who he was, the Goddess of Chance
alone could decide; and we have often thought that he might bear the
same relation to her as AEneas to the Goddess of Beauty.
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