noon
The Rhine is a fine stream , though our German friends will build mock-castles upon it , and insist that it is the only real river in the world . Auburn Risque pays no more regard to it than though he were treading the cedars and sands of New Jersey or North Carolina . He speaks with a Franco-Russian , who has lost in play ten thousand francs a month for three successive years , and while they discuss chances , expedients and experiences , the Siebern-gebierge drifts by , they pass St. Goar and Bingen , and the wonderful Rhine has been only a time , nothing of a scene , as they stop abreast Biberich , and , rowed ashore in a flagboat , make at once for the railway . At noon , on the third day , Mr. Risque having engaged a frugal bed at a little distance from Wisbaden , enters the grand saloon of the Kursaal , and turning to the right , sees before him a perspective , to which not all the marvels of art or nature afford comparison : a snug little room , with a table of green baize in the centre of the floor , and about the table sundry folks of various ages and degrees , before each a heap of glittering coins , and in the midst of all a something which moves forever , with a hurtle and a hum -- the roulette . Mark them ! the weak , the profligate , the daring . There is old age , watching the play , with its voice like a baby 's cry ; and the paper whereon it keeps tremulous tally swimming upon eyes of perpetual twilight .