The Gaming Table | Page 6

fortune. When reduced to a state of desperation by repeated
ill-luck, he loosens a certain lock of hair on his head, which, when
flowing down, is a sign of war and destruction. He swallows opium or
some intoxicating liquor, till he works himself up into a fit of frenzy,
and begins to bite and kill everything that comes in his way; whereupon,
as the aforesaid lock of hair is seen flowing, it is lawful to fire at and
destroy him as quickly as possible--he being considered no better than
a mad dog. A very rational conclusion.
Of course the Chinese are most eager gamesters, or they would not
have been capable of inventing those dear, precious killers of
time--cards, the EVENING solace of so many a household in the most
respectable and `proper' walks of life. Indeed, they play night and
day--until they have lost all they are worth, and then they usually
go--and hang themselves.
If we turn our course northward, and penetrate the regions of ice
perpetual, we find that the driven snow cannot effectually quench the
flames of gambling. They glow amid the regions of the frozen pole.
The Greenlanders gamble with a board, which has a finger-piece upon
it, turning round on an axle; and the person to whom the finger points
on the stopping of the board, which is whirled round, `sweeps' all the

`stakes' that have been deposited.
If we descend thence into the Western hemisphere, we find that the
passion for gambling forms a distinguishing feature in the character of
all the rude natives of the American continent. Just as in the East, these
savages will lose their aims (on which subsistence depends), their
apparel, and at length their personal liberty, on games of chance. There
is one thing, however, which must be recorded to their credit--and to
our shame. When they have lost their `all,' they do not follow the
example of our refined gamesters. They neither murmur nor repine. Not
a fretful word escapes them. They bear the frowns of fortune with a
philosophic composure.[7]
[7] Carver, Travels.
If we cross the Atlantic and land on the African shore, we find that the
`everlasting Negro' is a gambler--using shells as dice-- and following
the practice of his `betters' in every way. He stakes not only his
`fortune,' but also his children and liberty, which he cares very little
about, everywhere, until we incite him to do so--as, of course, we ought
to do, for every motive `human and divine.'
There is no doubt, then, that this propensity is part and parcel of `the
unsophisticated savage.' Let us turn to the eminently civilized races of
antiquity--the men whose example we have more or less followed in
every possible matter, sociality, politics, religion--they were all
gamblers, more or less. Take the grand prototypes of Britons, the
Romans of old. That gamesters they were! And how gambling recruited
the ranks of the desperadoes who gave them insurrectionary trouble!
Catiline's `army of scoundrels,' for instance. `Every man dishonoured
by dissipation,' says Sallust, `who by his follies or losses at the gaming
table had consumed the inheritance of his fathers, and all those who
were sufferers by such misery, were the friends of this perverse man.'
Horace, Juvenal, Persius, Cicero, and other writers, attest the fact of
Roman gambling most eloquently, most indignantly.
The Romans had `lotteries,' or games of chance, and some of their
prizes were of great value, as a good estate and slaves, or rich vases;

others of little value, as vases of common earth, but of this more in the
sequel.
Among the Gothic kings who, in the fulness of time and
accomplishments, `succeeded' to that empire, we read of a Theodoric,
`a wise and valiant prince,' who was `great lover of dice;' his solicitude
in play was only for victory; and his companions knew how to seize the
moment of his success, as consummate courtiers, to put forward their
petitions and to make their requests. `When I have a petition to prefer,'
says one of them, `I am easily beaten in the game that I may win my
cause.'[8] What a clever contrivance! But scarcely equal to that of the
GREAT (in politeness) Lord Chesterfield, who, to gain a vote for a
parliamentary friend, actually submitted to be BLED! It appears that the
voter was deemed very difficult, but Chesterfield found out that the
man was a doctor, who was a perfect Sangrado, recommending
bleeding for every ailment. He went to him, as in consultation, agreed
with the man's arguments, and at once bared his arm for the operation.
On the point of departure his lordship `edged' in the question about the
vote for his friend, which was, of course, gushingly promised and
given.
[8] Sed ego aliquid obsecraturus facile vincor; et mihi