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Updated: June 13, 2025
Simon Gambouge was the son of Solomon Gambouge; and as all the world knows, both father and son were astonishingly clever fellows at their profession. Solomon painted landscapes, which nobody bought; and Simon took a higher line, and painted portraits to admiration, only nobody came to sit to him.
He looked up at the lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pursue: upon it was inscribed the simple number, 152. “A gambling-house,” thought Gambouge. “I WISH I had half the money that is now on the table, up stairs.” He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and found half a hundred persons busy at a table of rouge et noir.
Gambouge and his wife were so delighted, that they, in the course of a month, made away with her gold chain, her great warming-pan, his best crimson plush inexpressibles, two wigs, a washhand basin and ewer, fire-irons, window-curtains, crockery, and arm-chairs.
He looked up at the lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pursue: upon it was inscribed the simple number, 152. "A gambling-house," thought Gambouge. "I wish I had half the money that is now on the table, up stairs." He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and found half a hundred persons busy at a table of rouge et noir.
A small plant, with long, narrow, grassy leaves, resembling that kind of bulrush which in England is called the Cat's-tail, yields a resin of a bright yellow colour, exactly resembling gambouge, except that it does not stain: It has a sweet smell, but its properties we had no opportunity to discover, any more than those of many others with which the natives appear to be acquainted, as they have distinguished them by names.
You know I must go soon, and I am anxious, before this noble company, to make a provision for one who, in sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest and fondest companion.” Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief all the company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs.
Cartlitch, of Astley’s Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages, could look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus did now. “Take another year, Gambouge,” screamed he; “two more ten more a century; roast me on Lawrence’s gridiron, boil me in holy water, but don’t ask that: don’t, don’t bid me live with Mrs. Gambouge!”
Nothing remained to corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake, and this was spirted all over his waistcoat and breeches. “I wish,” said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, “that dreams were true;” and he went to work again at his portrait. My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, and is footman in a small family. Mrs.
"I am inclined to think, holy sir," said Gambouge, after he had concluded his history, and shown how, in some miraculous way, all his desires were accomplished, "that, after all, this demon was no other than the creation of my own brain, heated by the effects of that bottle of wine, the cause of my crime and my prosperity."
Cursed be the love which has misled me; cursed be the art which is unworthy of me! Let me dig or steal, let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell myself to the Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am now!” “Quite the contrary,” cried a small, cheery voice. “What!” exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised. “Who’s there? where are you? who are you?”
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