CHAPTER IV.

GERMANY, RUSSIA, ROUMANIA, BULGARIA AND SERVIA.

“The Huns,” says St. Ambrose, “a fierce and warlike race, are always subject to a set of usurers, who lend them what they want for the purpose of gaming. They live without laws and yet obey the laws of dice.” The Father adds that when a player has lost he sets his liberty and often his life upon a single cast, and is accounted infamous if he does not pay his “debt of honor,” as a debt of dishonor has always been named.

We are told by Tacitus, in his history of the Germans, that the warriors gambled without the excuse of being drunk, which was probably an ironical indictment of the Romans, who did the same thing. The practices noted in a later age, by St. Ambrose, are described by the great Roman scholar, who says that a German who loses his liberty, submits to be chained and exposed to sale. The winner is always anxious to barter away such slaves.

Let us now look into the Germany of to-day. In 1838, the government at Paris abolished the public salons of play, and then arose Baden, Weisbaden, Sissingern, Wilhelmbad, Koethen, Hamburg, Ems, Spa, Geneva and Monaco. The gaming season began in the spring, when the leaves were green and closed in the late autumn. The opening and closing days of the tables were like the saturnalia of the Romans. _Rouge-et-noir_ and _roulette_ were the games.

In 1842, Homburg was an obscure village, the capital of the smallest of European countries. Its inhabitants were poor and unassuming. There was one inn, the “Aigle.” To this, a few German families came to drink the waters of a mineral spring. In the year 1842, the famous Blanc brothers arrived from Paris, from whence they had been driven. Frankfort had refused to receive them, and hearing of Homburg, they traveled thither in a diligence, and put up at the “Aigle.” The prime minister, who governed the Landgrafate of Homburg, at a salary of $300 a year, was open to the offers of a visitor so rich as the elder Blanc. Permission was given to set up a _roulette_-wheel at the inn and an old and skillful croupier of Frascati turned the wheel. No one could beat this wheel. So successful was the summer’s business that Blanc, at its close, obtained from the prime minister an exclusive concession to build a cure-hall, lay out a public garden, and pay into the national exchequer 40,000 florins (over $17,000) a year. With this concession Blanc went to Frankfort, and the Jews aided him in forming a company with a capital stock of about $175,000. Of this sum the Jews took half, and the Blancs half. During the winter a small cure-hall was built, and advertisements of the sanitive properties of the waters filled Europe. Next year visitors poured into Homburg in large numbers, and they were offered fully as much gambling as mineral water. From this beginning arose the great “company.” In 1867, the place was the most noted gaming resort in Europe. Nature and art had conspired to make it attractive. On one side are the mountains; on the other the river plains; the stream being the Main. On the mountain-side is a forest, with walks for the visitors. Gardens, lawns, groves, lakes, fountains, swans, music, and perfume, all united to dull the sense of right, and make a heaven of hell, for hell was what Homburg had come to be in 1867.

Fronting on the main street of the town, built of brown freestone in the fashion of a palace of Florence, was the “Temple of Fortune.” A spacious vestibule, paved with Roman mosaic, led to the great _salon_, whose walls and ceilings were laden with gilt and sculpture, mirrors and curtains of velvet and satin. Sofas and chairs of damask appeared to invite to rest, but there was no rest in that dread chamber. The rattle of the balls went on. Money sounded and checks clicked. There came regularly the cries of the croupiers, the cappers and the recommenders: “Make your play, gentlemen and ladies;” “The play is made; nothing more goes.”

As he entered, the visitor must remove his hat, as if he were in St. Peter’s. The goddess of fortune was a jealous and very exacting deity.

From a gentleman once connected with the “_Levant Herald_,” we are indebted for the following glimpses of gambling as it obtains in the Balkan Peninsular to-day:

“In Bulgaria and Servia I have seen the peasants throwing dice, or coins, or even a notched stick, to decide the point as to who should pay for the morning meal of ‘yekmek e’ soot’ (bread and milk.)

“The gamins of the street gamble for ‘Loukouni,’ little sticks of what looks like ‘Turkish Delight.’ In all the towns one may see at the street corners, the ‘hakimal,’ or ‘fakirs,’ with their packs of greasy cards, wheels of fortune, and little cunning traps of dingy brass work into which you drop small pieces of money and see whether it will ever reach the bottom. Unfortunately that happy event rarely occurs. The coin almost invariably becomes intercepted in its tortuous path and is claimed by the swarthy proprietor of the “faki.” Very often these men carry jewelry, and will match their wares against some property of your own; then play you ‘double or quits’ at ‘djini,’ which is practically the same as three card monte, only both parties have the privilege of a throw. While in Belgrade I came across an Arab, a most intelligent man, who had been a courier in Europe for years. I remarked to him upon this passion for gambling, and denounced its results in very strong terms. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but what would you have? These people are happy; they enjoy themselves. Why should they work when they can earn money so easily?’ ‘_Ed djunya djifetun ve talibeha khilab_’ (The world is an abomination, and those that work thereon are dogs.) This man had a supreme contempt for manual labor, and would spend days and nights in gaming houses. He was a master of the art of cheating, and told me he never employed any but fair means. ‘I know enough to guard myself from others,’ he said, ‘but why should one waste one’s talents on cattle like these?’ pointing to a long-bearded, venerable ‘hakimal’ near by. I think, however, that he did use his ‘talents’ pretty freely, for I noticed that he never came away from the table empty-handed.

“Now here was an instance of a man with remarkable natural intelligence, a fine linguist, well read, cultivated, a most agreeable traveling companion; but he was a gambler, and all his thoughts and energies were directed to one object—the winning of money by unfair means. He won immense sums, and if he had kept them, would have been a very wealthy man. But ‘light come, light go,’ and every cent was squandered in pleasure, often of the vilest, most revolting kind. I told him how it would probably end in a horrible death from starvation. ‘No,’ he replied quietly, ‘not like that. There is always a way out of life,’ and he pointed significantly to a small Malay creese which he carried in his belt. I went with him one night to the ‘Tag Alek’ in Belgrade, a hell of the worst reputation, and where I would not have ventured alone for a kingdom, but I knew I was safe in the company of ‘Le Brulant,’ as the courier was called. We passed through a dimly lighted court yard and entered by a little arched door-way, which opened into a small stone hall with a little fountain in the middle. My companion spoke a few words to the man in charge (cawass), who supplied us with felt sandals, and also gave me a loose gown to put over my European dress. Then we passed into a long, low room filled with little tables, each occupied by its group of card players, who were waited on by nearly nude negroes.

“There was almost perfect silence, broken now and then by a muttered oath or exclamation. The players were well, and even richly dressed, and seemed to embrace many nationalities. We went through noiselessly, and into another small room fitted up with divans and lounges. This was a conversation room, and there were two or three men talking in a Slav dialect in one corner. From here one could pass by separate doors, to the rooms where roulette, rouge et noir, and other games were played, but my companion refused to enter these, saying we should only disturb the players. We sat down, and an attendant brought us some coffee, black and bitter as gall, then handed us each a ‘tcihbouque’ (pipe), to light while a little boy dressed as an Albanian, brought us a piece of red hot charcoal on a platter. After a few minutes ‘Le Brulant’ proposed that we should see the rest of the house. I agreed, and we arose. ‘Let’s go to the Shades first,’ he said. I asked him what he meant. ‘Well,’ was the reply, ‘the rooms over these,’ pointing to the way by which we had entered, ‘are nothing. The men who play there are quiet, steady people. They are not initiated. Look here,’ and he drew back a heavy gold- embroidered curtain which concealed the end of the passage we had traversed. It was a magnificent room which lay beyond, gorgeous with gold and silver, and all the vivid colors of oriental furnishing. At the different tables were men and women seated, and apparently absorbed in their game. The attendants in this room were young girls dressed in a single fold of a fabric so fine and transparent that the white flesh gleamed through like pearl. My companion dropped the curtain and said: ‘Ah, there’s no one there to-night but the Lurley (mentioning the soubriquet of a woman infamously known all over Europe) and she seems to have a new victim.’ The Arab ground his teeth together savagely, as he hissed: ‘They may well call her the Lurley.’ We looked into a number of other rooms, where the same scene was being enacted, with variations. These were the public rooms, but there were also private dens, some of which were set apart for opium devotees. ‘But,’ I said to ‘Le Brulant,’ ‘I don’t see any danger in coming here. Everything seems quiet and orderly. How is it that the house has such a fiendish reputation?’ ‘Yes, you see the fair side to-night,’ he answered, ‘but if I was to leave you now, you might never get out of this place alive, if you had any money or jewelry about you. One of those sirens yonder would soon lure you to a nice, cool resting place at the bottom of the Danube.’ He said this so fiercely that I shuddered, and the thought struck me that the gambling fever might flash out in his veins at any moment and leave me without a protector in this hell upon earth. He saw my disquietude, and said gently: ‘Come, let’s go; its best not to stay too long.’ We passed out by another door opening on the same dark court yard, and I breathed more freely when we reached the open air, and I could see the stars above my head and feel the fresh breeze blowing down from the mountains, sweeping away the sense of languor and enervation imbued by the heavy scented atmosphere of the Tag’ Alek.”

At the German watering places the gambling houses were required to pay a heavy tax by the several principalities, which licensed them, notwithstanding games of hazard were forbidden by the laws. Moreover, the respective governments were so perfectly conscious of the ruin caused by gaming that they prohibited their subjects from patronizing the licensed establishments. In Homburg the law even forbade citizens from living intimately with gamblers and visitors, under a penalty of from 30 to 150 florins.

“The bankers” of Baden-Baden paid an annual license of 300,000 francs ($60,000), which was expended in constructing and beautifying the baths. The “bankers” were at an annual expense, in addition to this license, of 700,000 francs ($140,000), yet, notwithstanding this, the net profit of one season amounted to 2,000,000 francs ($400,000).

At Wiesbaden and Ems, the tables belonged to a joint stock company, which paid 115,000 florins for the double license. So profitable was the business that the company offered 100,000 florins more for the privilege of keeping the establishment open during the winter. The expenses of the company, for the season of 1860, were estimated at 750,000 francs, yet, from the net profit of the year, a dividend of 49·30 francs was paid on each one of the 25,000 shares of stock, showing an aggregate net profit of 1,232,500 francs ($246,500). At Wiesbaden there were two tables for roulette and two for rouge-et-noir, and at Ems one for each.

Homburg paid a license of 50,000 francs ($10,000), for which it had the privilege of keeping the tables in operation throughout the year. The society, or company, defrayed the expense of all buildings and embellishments. Its capital was divided into 10,000 shares, each of which earned a dividend of fifty-three francs.

Spa, for a time one of the most flourishing gaming resorts, paid a net annual profit of more than 1,000,000 francs from the operation of one roulette and one rouge-et-noir table. Geneva, like Spa, paid no license. The gaming “sessions” were held in a mansion of the President of the Council, for which, in 1860, a rental of 25,000 francs was paid. The general expenses that year were about 125,000 francs, and the net profits 300,000 francs ($60,000). Towards the end of the last century, Aix-la-Chapelle was a great rendez-vous of gamblers, and play there was generally desperate and ruinous. The chief banker paid a license of 4,000 Louis. The gaming profits in 1870 were 120,000 florins ($70,000).

Wiesbaden is in the Duchy of Nassau, being three or four miles farther from the historic city of Frankfort, to the westward, than Homburg is to the northward. Situated on the spurs of the Taunaus, about 100 feet above the Rhine, it is environed by beautiful villas, remarkable for the picturesqueness of their gardens—the residences, for the most part, of the wealthy bankers of Frankfort, the financial center of continental Europe. Wiesbaden is one of the oldest watering places in Germany. The locality is referred to by Pliny, in his natural history, and the remains of a Roman fortress were discovered some twenty years ago in the Heidenburg, north of the city.

Among the noteworthy buildings of the place are the Ducal Palace, built in imitation of the Alhambra, the ministerial building, once occupied by the Florentine Consulate, and the Catholic Church. Until 1872, the architectural and social center was the Cure Hall. In this structure the principal hall once contained copies of the Apollo, Venus, Laocoon and other celebrated productions of ancient art, and was embellished with pillars of red and gray marble quarried in the region. Outwardly, the Cure Hall is a reproduction of the immortal Pantheon, with its imposing portico fronting upon a charming square, wherein fountains play in the sunlight or beneath the soft rays of the moon, glinting through the leaves and branches, all of which makes beautiful shades and contrasts of color. On each side of the square are broad colonnades lined with fancy shops. The interior of the Cure Hall was furnished and adorned in a sumptuous and florid manner, as at other German Spas, and the pleasure grounds in the rear presented a charming prospect of walks, grottoes, and miniature lakes.

When gambling was in the ascendant at Wiesbaden, society there was in a very mixed and deplorable state. The fast were in full possession, almost, and as late as 1872 respectable women dared not take a stroll in the grounds outside the Cure Hall. When gambling, with “hideous mien,” stalked through this fair scene, the aged, broken down courtesans of Paris, Vienna and Berlin made Wiesbaden their autumn rendez-vous. A correspondent of the London _Daily Telegraph_ described them as “arrayed in all the colors of the rainbow, painted to the roots of their dyed hair, shamelessly decollette, prodigal of “free” talk and unseemly gestures, these ghastly creatures, hideous caricatures of youth and beauty, flaunted about the play rooms and gardens, levying blackmail upon those who were imprudent enough to engage them in “chaff” or badinage, and desperately endeavoring to hook themselves onto the wealthier and younger members of the male community. They poison the air around them with sickly perfume; they assume titles and refer to one another as “cette chere comtesse,” their walk was something between a prance and a wiggle; they prowled about the terrace whilst the music was playing, seeking whom they might devour, or rather whom they might inveigle for their devouring. How they did gorge themselves with food and drink when some silly lad or aged roue allowed himself to be bullied or wheedled into paying their scope, their name was legion and they constituted the very worst feature of a palace which, naturally a paradise, was turned into a seventh hell by the uncontrolled rioting of human passions. They had no friends, no “protectors.” They were dependent upon accident for a meal or a piece of gold to throw away at the tables; they were plague spots upon the face of society; they were, as a rule, grossly ignorant, and horribly cynical, and yet there were many men who were proud of their acquaintance, always ready to entertain them in the most expensive manner, and who spoke of them as if they were the only desirable companions in the world.

In all the world cannot be found an inland watering place so charming as Baden. The climate is invigorating, the situation unequalled and the locality, from every point of view, exceedingly beautiful. Situated on the confines of the “Black Forest,” in the beautiful valley of the Oelbach, and surrounded by green and graceful hills, Baden resembles both Heidelberg and Freiburg, but is more lovely than either. Overlooking the town are the fine old ruins of a castle, dating from the 11th century. This castle was for centuries the residence of the Margraves of Baden, and was destroyed as late as 1869 by the French. From the ruins a beautiful panorama is unfolded to the view. In the distance can be seen the broad valley of the Rhine, from Strasburg to the ancient town of Worms. Nearer lies the delightful valley of Baden, with its green pastures, and groves of fir trees and charming villas. Near the castle are huge and irregular masses of porphyry, which seen at a distance, reminds one of ruined towers and crumbling battlements.

The pleasant walks and drives, which are numerous about the town, lead one to pretty villages and fine views of old Roman ruins. Baden has only about 8,000 inhabitants, but the annual influx of visitors has been known to reach 50,000 or 60,000.

Prior to 1873, the central attraction of Baden was, of course, the conversationhaus (Conversation House); so called, it is presumed, because no one was permitted to speak there above a whisper. Applying the name “conversationhaus” to a gambling hall must have been due to some Teutonic vagary in which irony was uppermost. The conversationhaus contained drawing, reading, dining, concert and gaming rooms, all elaborately gilded and frescoed and richly furnished. Great mirrors, on every side, reflected all that transpired and made the place appear larger and the players more numerous than they really were.

The promenades of Baden, during the afternoon and evening, when an excellent band played before the gambling hall, presented a very animated and attractive scene. There representatives could be seen from all quarters of the world and of every nationality claiming to be civilized. The great majority were faultlessly attired in the latest fashion, and many very elegant toilets were to be seen. No better opportunity could be imagined to show a pretty face, a fine figure, or costly jewels and gowns, and the women were therefore happy. The men struggled to express that grand insouciance which indicates the final fathoming of all social profundities. The pleasantest feature of Baden were the walks and promenades where one could stroll leisurely with the bright sunshine overhead, soft and perfect music in the ear, and a gay panorama of pretty women and well dressed men before him.

The gambling rooms at Baden usually had six roulette and rouge-et-noir (trente-et-quarante) tables running. The games opened daily at 11 o’clock in the morning, and ran continuously until 11 o’clock at night. The place was almost as public as the street. Everybody went in or went out, played or refrained from playing, as he pleased. There was no one to question or interrupt, to invite or discourage, any respectably dressed or decently behaved stranger, who, from curiosity, inclination or other motive might desire to enter and look about. It was contrary to the rules for one to wear his hat or to take a cane or umbrella into the gambling rooms, and in the vestibule, lackeys were stationed to relieve visitors of these articles. These lackeys wore livery not unlike a court costume and were most obedient, obsequious and ready to do any one’s bidding, with the expectation of course, of receiving a “tip” for their trouble. The Directors paid a license of $75,000 a year and paid out as much more for the running expenses of the establishment, yet reaped immense profit. The season extended from May until October and was at its height from the middle of July until the first of September.

The Baden salons during the height of the season, were attractive to the mind and interesting to the eye. The contemplative spectator, the student of human nature, saw much relating to cosmopolitan society which he could scarcely find elsewhere. The _roulette_ and _trente-et- quarante_ tables were always crowded, while the games were in progress. Well dressed men and women, young and old, notables and nobodies, many of distinguished bearing, sat around the tables, or leaned over from their standing posture behind, and placed their bets, raked in their winnings, or scowled and muttered curses when they lost. All the players were absorbed in the game. Around each table, also, were to be seen, scores of persons, whose despondent countenances told, as plainly as words could express it, that their last louis had been swept away. The “banker” or dealer, and the croupiers, his assistants, occupied seats raised above those of the players, that they might the better see what was transpiring on the table, and not to be interfered with by the movements of the bettors.

No attache of the establishment was ever known to ask any one, even in the most indirect manner, to take part in the game. All seemed indifferent on that point, and visitors were free to play or not as they pleased. Dealers, croupiers, and lackeys—all maintained an air of good breeding and never allowed themselves to exhibit emotion or even any particular interest. Thousands were raked in, or paid, with each deal or roll of the ball, and all proceeded in a marvelously mechanical way. The players did but little talking and rarely spoke above an undertone. The chink of the coin could be distinctly heard, as the dealer tossed it adroitly to the winning stakes, or as the croupiers raked in the losses. Over all, like a sad refrain, was heard periodically, the dealers direction to the players, “faites votre jeu, messieurs,” “le jeu est fait,” and “rien ne va plus.” (“Make your play, gentlemen!” “Nothing more goes!”)

Baden was the most dangerous of all gambling resorts, though the most respectable. On arriving from Homburg or Wiesburg, say in 1860, and entering the Maison de Conversation, at Baden, one could hardly believe, for the moment, that he was in a gambling house, for the interior was in striking contrast with that of most places devoted to this purpose. The attendants were neatly attired and quite courteous. The company was elegantly dressed and no one over-stepped the bounds of strict decorum. The professional gambler was a rarity. The titled aristocrat was there and potentates arrived in their elegant carriages, from the city, or the country. Representatives of the _demi-monde_ were there, but they differed little, in outward aspect, from the most respectable.

Writing of the interior of the Conversationhaus in 1870, Mr. Whitelock said: “How shall I describe to my readers, in language sufficiently graphic, one of the resorts the most celebrated in Europe—a place if not competing with Crockford’s in gorgeous magnificence, use, and display, at least surpassing it in renown, and known over a wider sphere? The metropolitan pump-room of Europe, conducted on the principle of gratuitous admittance to all bearing the semblance of gentility and conducting themselves with propriety, opens its Janus doors to all the world with the most laudable hospitality and with a perfect indifference to exclusiveness, requiring only the hat to be taken off upon entering, and rejecting only short jackets, cigar, pipe, and meerschaum. A room of this description, a temple dedicated to fashion, fortune, and flirtation, requires a pen more graphic to vivify and depict. Taking everything, therefore, for granted, let us suppose a vast salon of regular proportions, rather longer than broad, at either end garnished by a balcony; beneath, doors to the right and left and opposite to the main entrance, conduct to other apartments, dedicated to different purposes. On entering, the eye is at once dazzled by the blaze of lights from chandeliers of magnificent dimensions, composed of lamps, lustres, and sconces. The ceiling and borders set off into compartments showered over with arabesques, the gilded pillars, the moving mass of promenaders, the endless labyrinth of human beings, assembled from every region in Europe, the costly dresses, repeated by a host of mirrors, all this combined, which the eye conveys to the brain at a single glance, utterly fails of description. As with the eye, so it is with the ear; at every step a new language falls upon it and every tongue with different intonation, for the high and the low, the prince, peer, vassal and tradesman, the proud beauty, the decrepit crone, some freshly budding into the world, some standing near the grave, the gentle and the stern, the sombre and the gay; in short, every possible antithesis that the eye, ear, or heart can perceive, hear, or respond to, or that the mind itself can imagine, is here to be met with in two minutes. And yet all this is no Babel; for all, though concentrated, is admirably void of confusion; and evil or strong passions if they do exist, are religiously suppressed—a necessary consequence, indeed, where there can be no sympathy, and where contempt and ridicule would be the sole reciprocity. In case, however, any such display should take place, a gendarme keeps constant watch at the door, appointed by the government, it is true, but resembling our Bow street officer in more respects than one.”

We here append what a traveler witnessed within the Cure-hall at Baden in the summer of 1854:

“Almost immediately on our entrance our attention was attracted to a young Englishman, fashionably dressed, but yet of such rakish and sinister aspect that I set him down at once as a black-leg who had figured at Epsom or Newmarket; a London roue, who, having lost character and means at home, now formed one of that base band of English sharpers who are to be found on the continent, and who initiate our young bloods into the mysteries of the gambling tables, or fleece them at private gaming parties. In eager excitement this person pressed through the crowd, and, bending over the table, repeatedly deposited a handful of silver florins, until nearly every yellow line or space had a stake placed upon it. It seemed as if he had set his life upon the cast and was resolved to take the bank by storm. Within a few minutes, however, his entire cash was lost, and as the croupiers remorselessly gathered it in with their little rakes, he turned abruptly away.

“But whose are the small gloved hands and rounded arms which, just at my left, are suddenly thrust forward to obtain silver for the Napoleon d’or which she gives to the markers? I look around and see a tall and elegantly dressed French lady standing at my side. She cautiously deposits one or two florins on the board, and with subdued excitement watches the progress of the game. At length the silver pieces are all staked and lost. Now, with gloved hands, she unfastens the string of her purse and other gold is produced and changed, until all is gone, and she, too, suddenly disappears.

“The game has progressed but a few moments when our countryman returns and proceeds as before, with the same result, and then disappears again. Now, here is also the French lady again, with her silk purse containing gold pieces, and playing with greater excitement than ever; but after some winnings, she, too, loses all.

“Yonder stands a tall, thin lady, who seeks the table on which small sums can be played. See how anxiously she glances over the table, and how cautiously she deposits her little sum. Once or twice she wins, and her pale cheeks become flushed, and her eyes kindle; but in a short time it is all gone, and then, leaving the place, she retires to one of those garden chairs sitting apart from the rest of the people, her cheeks more wasted, her eyes duller, apparently broken-hearted, as if the thought of her confiding husband and little ones far away oppressed her spirit. But look again and you will see another lady with a younger lady by her side. It is her daughter, and she is initiating her into the mysteries of gambling. Who would like to marry such a woman, thus trained into the mysteries of such a game as this?

“A man now enters the room. His dress and person are neglected, his face is unwashed, his long and curly hair falls wildly over his forehead, seamed and furrowed with deep wrinkles, A little girl is by his side. She, too, is miserably dressed, and his rank seems to be that of a peasant. He is an inveterate gambler and cannot do without his excitement. He takes a seat at the foot of the table, deposits a florin from time to time, and carefully examines a small marked card on which is marked the result of each revolution of the deal. For a time familiarity with the game seems to give him an advantage, and with a calm satisfaction he rakes in his winnings in a heap, on which the little girl bends her glistening eyes. And there he sits until the evening closes, when he departs, having passed an evening of feverish excitement and lost all. The face of that gambler and the little girl, who was always with him and who seemed as if she were the only one left of a ship-wrecked and ruined family, haunt me to this hour.

“At rouge et noir is a more select class than is generally found playing at roulette. English, French, Germans, Russians, and Poles, and the fire of Mammon always burning on his altars and the doomed flies buzzing about them, some with already scorched-off wings; it is a scene of external gaiety with all that is internally hollow and deceiving.

“The lights are burning brightly overhead, the players nearly all seated, and a large number of people forming an outer circle.

“Here are two gentlemen who are bold players. They never stake silver. A pile of Napoleons lies at the side of each. One player is about sixty years of age, tall and robust; the other a little, dark haired, black eyed man, and both appear to be habitues of the place. Three gold pieces formed the first stake, and the player winning, the same was doubled. Five more Napoleons are won.

“At this moment one of the proprietors can be seen talking with some friends nonchalantly, and apparently uninterested in the game, in the background; but if you will watch him carefully, you can see that he ever and anon casts a searching glance toward the table, for this evening the game is going against the bank. But soon caution on the part of the player is gone, and golden visions beckon onward. One of the gentlemen leaves ten gold pieces on the cloth, another turn and all is gone.

“It was here that an Englishman played one night until he lost £180,000, and announced his determination to win it back or to lose everything; but he was doomed to drink, and justly too, the cup of bitterness: he lost everything.”

Mrs. Trollope has thus described two specimens of the gamestresses, who were wont to frequent the German watering places:

“There was one of this set,” she says, “whom I watched day after day, during the whole period of our stay, with more interest than, I believe was reasonable; for had I studied any other as attentively, I might have found less to lament.

“She was young, certainly not more than twenty-five, and though not regularly nor brilliantly handsome, most singularly winning, both in person and demeanor. Her dress was elegant, but peculiarly plain and simple—a close white silk bonnet and gauze veil; a quiet colored silk gown, with less of flourish and frill, by half, than any other person; a delicate little hand, which, when ungloved, displayed some handsome rings; a jeweled watch of peculiar splendor; and a countenance expressive of anxious thoughtfulness—must be remembered by many who were at Baden in August, 1833. They must remember, too, that, enter the room when they would, morning, noon or night, still they found her nearly at the same place at the rouge et noir table.

“Her husband, who had as unquestionably the air of a gentleman, as she had of a lady, though not always close to her, was never very distant. He did not play himself, and I fancied, as he hovered near her, that his countenance expressed anxiety. But he returned her sweet smile, with which she always met his eye, with an answering smile; and I saw not the slightest indication that he wished her to withdraw from the table.

“There was an expression in the upper part of her face that my blundering science would have construed into something very foreign to the propensity she showed; but there she sat—hour after hour, day after day, not allowing even the blessed Sabbath, that gives rest to all, to bring it to her;—there she sat, constantly throwing down handfuls of five-franc pieces, and sometimes drawing them back again, till her young face grew rigid from weariness, and all the lustre of her eye faded into a glare of vexed inanity. Alas! alas! is that fair woman a mother? God forbid!

“Another figure at the gaming table, which daily drew our attention, was a pale, anxious old woman, who seemed no longer to have strength to conceal her agitation under the air of callous indifference which all practiced players endeavor to assume. She trembled, till her shaking hand could hardly grasp the instrument with which she pushed, or withdrew her pieces; the dew of agony stood upon her wrinkled brow; yet, hour after hour, day after day, she, too, sat in the enchanted chair. I never saw age and station in a position so utterly beyond the pale of respect. I was assured she was a person of rank; and my informant added, but I trust she was mistaken, that she was an Englishwoman.”

Ems is a quiet village in the Duchy of Nassau, fifteen miles north of Wiesbaden, situated picturesquely on the river Lahn; it is surrounded by green hills, beautiful landscapes and delightful drives. The discovery of ancient vases and coins in the vicinity indicates that, like Wiesbaden, it was known to the Romans. Ems has a population of less than 5,000, but entertains about 8,000 visitors each summer. When gambling flourished at Ems, years ago, there was a croupier whose life had been a most adventurous and checkered one. The illegitimate son of a German Margrave, he was educated a soldier and served with distinction. Leaving the army, he traveled through the East—was in succession a Mohammedan, a member of the Greek church, an Israelite, a Roman Catholic, a Buddhist and an Atheist. By his father’s death he inherited a large fortune. Married three times, he had quarreled with and separated from each wife. Becoming an epicurean and dilettante, he was soon a sensualist and a sot. Broken down with dissipation, and reduced to poverty, he found himself at Ems. Thoroughly familiar with gambling, he was given a situation as croupier, provided he would give up drinking. This he agreed to do, and kept his pledge. A man of exceptional ability, and unusual opportunities, he had, in twenty short years, ruined his prospects and his health, and settled down to the monotonous and hopeless career of a croupier in a gambling house.

The Russians, late to learn civilization, but keenest of its students, have begun—so say the English, their enemies—by learning all the vices. Like Alexander the Great, the Russian autocrat permits a dissolute life among the nobility, in order that the empire may not have to confront the resolutions of more honorable men. Ennui wears upon the gentry. At Moscow and St. Petersburg, the man of the fashionable world dwells in a state of social license that contrasts sharply with his political restrictions. Moscow is filled with men in disgrace, who are here allowed to live in splendid exile. Gaming, racing, intemperance, and libertinism are the most striking features of the Russian realistic novel. If we read “Anne Karenina,” by Tolstoi, we shall be outraged with the gross treatment of an honest husband, at the hands of an author who pretends to follow the practical teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. The minister of state, who suffers from the incursions of a libertine, is dwelt upon, and held up to ridicule, while the inner life of a villain who steals away the love of a bad wife, is glazed over and made entertaining to low minds. It may be said that this was necessary, in a land where a betrayed husband was the butt of ridicule; but why should the life of a woman offer a field for the apologetics of Tolstoi? Why should the noble author who toils like a peasant in the field, have no word of praise for a husband whose every act was visibly an attempt to do justice and serve the state? Why should not gambling and racing receive a stinging rebuke at the hands of an author who is not afraid to rebuke all other iniquities? Possibly “Anne Karenina” would have had a very limited sale, if gamblers, libertines, and a wicked woman had not figured as the principal characters.

In Roumania, lansquenet, makaw, baccaret, and other games are the pastimes of old and young, and consequently the Shylock flourishes. All Roumanians play, and it is difficult for the visitor to resist the epidemic. The Roumanians lay the blame on the Russians and declare that gambling sprung up during the two military occupations. Exiles like the emigrants from France, weary of absence from their own vodki, introduced games of chance; and card playing is now the only social entertainment of the salons. “Every drawing-room in Bucharest is an unlicensed cure- halle,” say a recent writer.