'Sir,—As I have passed much of life in disgust and suspense, and lost many opportunities of advantage by a passion which I have reason to believe prevalent in different degrees over a great part of mankind, I cannot but think myself well qualified to warn those who are yet uncaptivated of the dangers which they incur by placing themselves within its influence.
'In the course of even prosperity I was one day persuaded to buy a ticket in the lottery. At last the day came, my ticket appeared, and rewarded all my care and sagacity with a despicable prize of fifty pounds.
'My friends, who honestly rejoiced upon my success, were very coldly received; I hid myself a fortnight in the country that my chagrin might fume away without observation, and then, returning to my shop, began to listen after another lottery.
'With the news of a lottery I was soon gratified, and, having now found the vanity of conjecture and inefficacy of computation, I resolved to take the prize by violence, and therefore bought forty tickets, not omitting, however, to divide them between the even and the odd, that I might not miss the lucky class. Many conclusions did I form, and many experiments did I try, to determine from which of those tickets I might most reasonably expect riches. At last, being unable to satisfy myself by any modes of reasoning, I wrote the numbers upon dice, and allotted five hours every day to the amusement of throwing them in a garret; and examining the event by an exact register, found, on the evening before the lottery was drawn, that one of my numbers had turned up five times more than any of the rest in three hundred and thirty thousand throws.
'This experiment was fallacious; the first day presented the ticket a detestable blank. The rest came out with different fortune, and in conclusion I lost thirty pounds by this great adventure.
'The prize which had been suffered to slip from me filled me with anguish, and, knowing that complaint would only expose me to ridicule, I gave myself up silently to grief, and lost by degrees my appetite and my rest.'
The 'Rambler.'—Vol. III. No. 187.
Love alters not for us his hard decrees,
Not though beneath the Thracian clime we freeze,