ILLUSTRATIONS OF HUMANITY.

No. XXV. THE GAMBLERS. THERE is an old Anglo-Saxon word, primitively signifying a place covered over, or concealed, but which is now familiar to us in a larger and more awful sense. That word has been felicitously applied to places such as the one of which we have given a representation look at our engraving, and say if the scene does not indeed appear a hell!

It is unquestionably a most extraordinary vice this of GAMBLING. Almost all nations have practised it, civilised and uncivilised, and amongst rude people it has been carried to extraordinary length. The ancient Germans would stake their own bodies, and the loser would cheerfully go into voluntary slavery, permitting the winner to dispose of his body for any consideration he could realize. The same thing has been, and is, done in modern times, amongst some of the African tribes or nations; while North American Indians, or apparently impassive Chinese, will stake whatever they possess in the world "on the hazard of the die." Nay, even fingers and thumbs are lost and won in this absorbing vice: while, in what are reckoned civilised and polished countries, too often has the Gambler rushed from the "hell" where he had lost his entire earthly possessions, and with his own hand added to his earthly loss by flinging his soul down the dark gulf of eternity! An awful instance of this occurred in the case of Caleb Colton, the author, amongst other things, of the celebrated collection called "Lacon, or Many Things in Few Words." In that book, Colton said, "The Gamester, if he die a martyr to his profession, is doubly ruined. He adds his soul to every other loss; and by the act of suicide renounces earth to forfeit heaven." Yet the man who wrote that awful sentence, was himself a gamester. Though a beneficed clergyman, and a man of acute and cultivated mind, he spent his time in the gambling "hells" of London, until he fled, in order to avoid his creditors; afterwards he became a regular frequenter of the gambling houses of Paris, often winning large sums of money. But being on a visit to a friend at Fontainebleau, the wearied, wasted, forlorn wretch blew out his brains. This was in 1832.

The cause of gambling may easily be traced. The human mind requires occupation; it likes to have some pursuit that will rouse its passions, and keep it excited between hope and fear. The warrior, returned from fighting or hunting, lies down and sleeps; the excitement is gone, and he is all apathy and indifference: he cannot think, and he has no books, even supposing he could read. Propose a game-a gambling match -and instantly he rouses up! So in countries called civilised, especially in large cities, where men have both leisure and money, but are not sufficiently intellectual to live without stimulus, gambling prevails. The gambling table excites them, even supposing them to be indifferent to money for its own sake. But add also a love of money-a desire to obtain riches without

labour, or the slow process of accumulation-then, gambling becomes "an enchanting witchery, gotten betwixt idleness and avarice." But we are not going to moralise on gambling: essays, tales, poems, and plays, there are in abundance, in the English language alone, all full of warning against the "enchanting witchery."

The passion for gambling in England, or rather we may say London-during last century quite infected "all ranks and conditions of men." The desire to become suddenly rich was an overmastering passion, and any scheme that promised to gratify it was eagerly patronised. South Sea bubbles, and other joint-stock schemes-lotteries, large and small-cards, dice, &c. all flourished. Dr. Johnson, in his "Rambler," frequently refers to the absorbing desire for wealth, directing the thunders of his grave rhetoric against the many vices which it germinated. In one paper devoted to gambling, the motto is taken from Juvenal, with Dryden's translation:

:

"What age so large a crop of vices bore?

Or when was avarice extended more?

When were the dice with more profusion thrown? And the Doctor commences his paper with saying, "There is no grievance, public or private, of which, since I took upon me the office of a public monitor, I have received so many, or so earnest complaints, as of the predominance of play; of a fatal passion for cards and dice, which seems to have overturned, not only the ambition of excellence, but the desire of pleasure; to have extinguished the flames of the lover, as well as of the patriot; and threatens in its further progress, to destroy all distinctions, both of rank and sex, to crush all emulation but that of fraud, to corrupt all those classes of our people, whose ancestors have, by their virtue, their industry, or their parsimony, given them the power of living in extravagance, idleness, and vice, and to leave them without knowledge but of the modish games, and without wishes but for lucky hands."

Up to within two or three years ago, gambling in Paris was a legalised pursuit. The government derived a revenue from the gambling houses, and the police protected the gamblers. There was a company which took all the gambling houses, six in number, and paid to the government an annual sum-about £240,000-for the privilege. "They kept six houses, namely, Frascati's, the Salons, and four in the Palais Royal. In a trial in Paris, it came out in the course of the evidence, that the clear profit for 1837, exclusive of the duty, had been 1,900,000 francs, (about £76,000,) of which three-fourths was paid to the city of Paris, leaving the lessee £19,000 for his own share. The average number of players per day was stated at 3000, and about 1000 more refused admission. The games played were chiefly Roulette and Rouge-et-Noir, of which the latter was the favourite. It was very seldom that large sums were staked at Roulette, as the chances against the player were considered immense by professional men, a class of gentlemen who are gamblers by profession. Rouge-et-Noir (red and black)

is played with four packs of cards, and the 'couleur' which is nearest thirty-one wins; the black being dealt for first, and then the red. All the houses were open from one o'clock in the afternoon till one or two after midnight; and latterly, till five or six in the morning.” The gambling-house called Frascati's was the aristocratic one, lofty and splendid saloons, liveried servants, and well-dressed croupiers, or dealers at the tables. The Chamber of Deputies expressed a wish that the French government would give up the revenue derived from this infamous source; and accordingly it was resolved that after the commencement of 1838, no more licenses should be given to the gambling houses.

In Germany gambling is a fashionable, and in many place, a legalised vice. The small sovereigns of dif ferent states derive a portion of their incomes from this source; and at many of the watering places, such as Baden, Wisbaden, &c. there are magnificent saloons fitted up for Roulette and Rouge-et-Noir; and in these not a few of our English pigeons, who fly abroad in summer, get very comfortably plucked.

Gambling has been the subject of legal enactments in England from an early period, and all common gaming-houses are nuisances in the eye of the law. "But as a proof," (says a writer well-informed on the subject) how futile all legislative measures hitherto have been, we need only mention, and we do so without fear of contradiction, that there are more of those infamous places of resort, appropriately denominated "Hells," in London, than in any other city in the world. The handsome gas lamp, and the green or red baize door at the end of the passage (as well-known a sign as the Golden Cross or Spread Eagle) are conspicuous objects in the vicinity of St. James's and of St. George, Hanover square. It is the interior of one of these which our engraving represents; and the artist has sufficiently expressed the character of the place in the countenances of the knaves and fools assembled, without requiring one word of comment from us.

POETICAL CONTRIBUTIONS.-No. IV.

AN immense number of poetical contributions have reached us since the appearance of our last article under this head. We are only, however, able to make room for four. The first is from the pen of Mr. H. G. Adams, and is a continuation of the "Lays of a Lunatic," which formerly appeared in our Journal. The lunatic in this instance is represented as apostrophising

THE STORM.

HURRAH! hurrah! the tempest king

Is riding forth to-night,

I hear afar re-echoing

His langh of fierce delight;

I hear the trampling of his steed,

Which onward, like the blast, doth speed

Along the rocky height;

And over vale, and over hill,

Sends out his neigh, as trumpet shrillRejoicing in his might.

Hurrah! hurrah! the lightning blue

Is quivering all around;
The thunder rolls the welkin through-
An avalanche of sound;

I hear of falling trees the crash,
I hear of water-falls the dash,
Amid the gloom profound;

And from the sea, and from the land,
Above-below-on every hand,

Come noises that astound.
Hurrah! hurrah! why this is brave!
It pleaseth me right well;
Come forth, O tiger, from thy cave,
I'll give thee yell for yell;

Ye wolves that in the forest prowl,
Though wild and dismal be your howl,

My voice shall sound as fell;
Hoot, night-birds, hoot! and eagles scream;
Both owls and eagles, ye shall deem,

Are answering from this cell!
Hurrah! hurrah! how merrily

Speeds on the whistling blast;
How creaks and groans the old yew-tree
As he doth hurry past;

How chink and rattle all the chains
Round yonder murderer's remains,

Whose limbs about are cast,

As though a demon tune were played
That stirred his fleshless bones, and made
Him leap and twirl so fast.
Hurrah! hurrah! I'll dance with thee,
My chains shall rattle too;
I'll "mop and mow" in ghastly glee,
And leap as thou dost do;
And were I free to take my stand,
With knife or dagger in my hand,

Where men their ways pursue;
Gods! how the gory tide should flow,
No rest, no pause, my arms should know,
Till all my foes I slew.

From out my narrow cell I gaze

Upon the troubled main;
Now are the billows all ablaze,
Now pitchy black again;

I hear the booming of a gun,
Ah! ah! the jagged rocks have won
A goodly ship ;-in vain

She struggles to avert her fate;
She sees her danger, but too late;
She parteth right in twain!
There will be bodies on the sea,
And bodies on the shore,
Below, a goodly company,

Five hundred souls, or more;
And things that my oppressors prize,
Rich gems and costly merchandize,
The billows will roll o'er;

And eyes will dim, and hearts will break,
Of those, who here their idols make,
And earthly things adore.

Again my glance to land I turn,
Ah! ah! what see I there?

The blaze of villages that burn

Is reddening all the air;

And there are shrieks and there are cries

That in the winged blast arise,

And accents of despair;

And there are forms, that as they shout,

Like swarthy demons leap about,

Amid the lurid glare.

The dusky legions overhead,

The storm-king's call obey,

Their sable banners wide they spread

In terrible array;

They pour down rain, and hail, and sleet;
The standing corn they bruise, and beat

Into the sodden clay;

On stately tree, on spire, and tower,
To overthrow-consume-devour-
The forked lightnings play.

Hurrah! hurrah! another falls!

Yon mighty oak is shattered,
And nought is left but blackened walls
And smoking fragments-scattered
Upon the blast-of yonder tower,
That stood so late in pride of power,

And vain by foe was battered;

How looks the owner? mighty prince!
No awe the elements evince,

By them ye are not flattered.
Well done, why this is brave indeed!
Roll on, ye foaming waters;
Destroy, ye lightnings, 'tis the creed

Preached by earth's sons and daughters;
Tramp on, O thundering hurricane,
Make desolation, like the van

Of army bathed in slaughters,

And if proud man should ask ye why
Ye do these things, to him reply,

'Tis you yourself hath taught us!

Very different is the strain in which the following is written. Who the author is we do not know.

THE WIDOW'S CHILD.

THE wild flowers were springing with beauty so fair,
Perfuming with odour the sweet morning air,—
The songsters were singing their carols so gay,
And welcoming forth the bright beauties of day-
When close by a cottage in youder fair vale

I lingered to hear the low murm'rings of wail.

A mother was weeping-how sad, and how wild

The accents that breathed the loved name of her child!

She uttered his name in the accents of woe,

And sadly, yet purely, her tears ever flow.

"Oh! weep not, my mother, oh! why should you weep?

I go-but I go in the gentlest of sleep,

To those regions above, to those worlds so fair,
And the angels of God they welcome me there."
Like words of deep music they lingered awhile
Till the paleness of death was cheer'd by a smile;
Yet oh! the sweet sadness of that ardent gazę
But told the near coming of death's icy haze.
Then that mother wept as she hung o'er his bed,
And sadly she thought of the time when she led
His yet infant steps o'er the green grassy glade,
And he pluck'd the fair flowers that bloom but to fade!
She thought of that time, and she thought of him now
When the cold hand of death was laid on his brow,-
A mother's emotion was high in her breast,

And she kissed the young lips that she often had pressed;
Then sobbing, and weeping, with anguish so wild,
She murmur'd the accents "my child, oh! my child."

A sad moment has fled, and o'er his young brow
The workings of death show their agony now;
He writhes, and he starts with convulsions of pain
And strongly he struggles the vict'ry to gain.
"My mother, come near me," is all he can say,
For the darkness of death is clouding his way.
A moment he paused-till the wild anguished cry
Of" Mother! oh! leave me not now till I die,"
Wrung grief from her bosom with many a start,
For now from the child of her love she must part.
Again the wild struggle of death and of life
In sweatings of agony-pictures its strife.
The fast changing looks-the lips pallid white,
And the earnest fixed gaze that sees not the light-

The breathings of lowness-the writhings of pain,
Proclaim all too sadly life ebbing amain.

His mother bends o'er him in anguish of woe,
To gaze on his struggle-his last dying throe-
He murmurs her name in the breathings of prayer-
"Be with her, O God-thou art there-thou art there!"
His breathings came fast, and how cold was his breath
As o'er him she bent-'twas the moment of death!

That mother stood gazing alone on the dead,
And many, and sad, were the tears that she shed;
She called on her child, on his dear loved name,
And sorrow and sadness pervaded her strain.

"And is it thus my hopes must fade
And die before they bloom,
Like as the dim uncertain shade
Which fleets athwart the gloom?

Farewell, my little cherub mild,

I little thought that thou

So soon would'st meet thy death, sweet child;
How pale thy lovely brow!

And how serene is still thy face
That beamed with infant joy!
O Death! oh! do not yet deface
My own-my darling boy.

'My own' I said-ah no-not now,-
He's dead-he's gone from me,
Pale death has stamped his little brow,—
His soul-his spirit's free.

And I have said farewell' my son,

A long adieu to thee,

For there is One whose will is done,
And He hath set thee free."

A. W.

A few weeks ago we gave a prose tale under the title of "The Duellist.' The following lines are intended to constitute a kind of appendix to it.

STANZAS BY A DUELLIST.

No peace upon the land,

No rest where billows roll;

There's blood-there's blood upon my hand,

There's guilt upon my soul;

No change of scene my grief can drown,
Or ease the load that weighs me down.

The friend I dearly loved

(My crime how shall I tell,
We fought, by sudden passion moved,)
Pierced by my sword he fell,-
Ah, why did I not fall instead?
Oh! how I envy now the dead!

I saw him bleeding lie,

And heard his dying groan,
My heart was filled with agony,
My peace for ever gone :
So deep and dark was my despair,
I sought to perish with him there.

But friendly hands withheld

Me from my rash design,
They forced me from that fatal field-
What grief of soul was mine!
Can years of deep remorse atone
The deed in one brief moment done?

Though honour's laws acquit,

My conscience will not calm,

A wound doth on my spirit sit,
For which I find no balm-
No balm on earth that wound to heal,
Words cannot picture what I feel.

I find no peace by day-
In visions of the night
His spirit seems to haunt me aye,
I wake in wild affright,

With clammy sweat suffused o'er,

And my heart trembling to its core.

A shedder of man's blood

A murderer-dreadful name!

Society and solitude

To me are all the same,

To harrowing horrors still a slave,
No rest for me but in the grave.

The above lines are written by Mr. William Calder, of Edinburgh.

Our fourth and for the present last contribution, is from the pen of a mere youth-one who regards himself as but a school-boy. It is accompanied by an exceedingly modest letter in which the youthful writer says, that if our opinion of the piece be adverse, he will abjure the muses; but that if we think favourably of it, it will stimulate him to attempt greater and better things. No one of any taste who reads the lines, can hesitate to say that the production is a very meritorious one for so young a man. We fancy we can, though not blind to certain defects incidental to the inexperience of the writer, discern indications in it of poetic talent of superior order. Our counsel, however, to our correspondent is not to trust to literature, and above all to poetry, as a profession, or as the means of earning a livelihood. The days of acquiring a competency by literary labour, and especially by cultivating the field of poesy, are well nigh over, if indeed they be not wholly so. If our young correspondent means to persist in paying homage to the muses, let not his poetic efforts in any way interfere with whatever avocations he may have to attend to in life. With these admonitory remarks we now present our readers with lines on

A MORNING IN MAY.

SLOW rises Sol from out his eastern bed,

Lifts his bright form suffused with tints of red;
He in his car of purple lustre borne,
Darkness dispels, and ushers in the morn.
The fragrant air with genial sweetness fills,
And flings his radiance o'er the gladdened hills.
The lingering watch-fires of the gloomy night
Slowly recede before his purer light;
One after one they softly glide away,
Till nought is seen, save clear unbounded day.
His piercing beams the routed clouds disperse,
Which spread their pall around the universe;
Their shattered fragments, massive balls appear,
And sail like floating islands through the air.
Yet grandeur to the dazzling scene they add,
In the fair robe of white effulgence clad :
Pure globes of light-a wide phosphoric blaze,-
They shine like mirrors to reflect his rays.
Like a vast ridge of mountains they expand
Their lofty peaks, magnificently grand,
Charged with loud thunder, o'er the wide extent
They circle proudly heaven's battlement.
The scene is lovely, and the prospect fair,
And playsome birds fly dancing through the air.
Smoothly descending, heaven's shadows blue
Streak the dark ocean with celestial hue.
O'er the glad waters of the purpled deep
The scaly fish love playfully to leap;

Uplift their golden backs above the sea,
Disporting through its waters cheerily.
See how yon vessel ploughs her watery way;
Hark to the joyous hum of voices gay!

Her buoyant sides the murmuring breakers lave,
Her prow cuts through the gently rippling wave:
The air is still-all hands now grasp the oar,
And eager strain for some far-distant shore;
Their hearts with brightening expectation glow,
In merry concert manfully they row.
The dripping oars along the billows splash,
Glance the blue waters, like a sudden flash
Of lightning-onward gallantly she glides
Athwart the surging main, and o'er the billow rides.
The whitening wave heaves calmly to the shore,
And the vast deep her wide tract glories o'er.
And yet still brighter o'er the blossomed earth
Sol throws his beam, and gives the morning birth.
Old mother nature clad in varied dress,
Beams forth in all her native loveliness.
While from the south there blows a gentle breeze,
Whose breath of odours clothes the happy trees;
The woods majestically wild appear,
Wave their dense fronts, and lofty tops uprear.
The opening flowers their varied tints disclose,
The purple lily, and the blushing rose:
While beautifully simple o'er the vale
The primrose blooms soft-waving to the gale.
The scene is mingled with a varied hue,
The sky reflects earth's green, and earth the heaven's
clear blue;

Azure and green are blended all in one,
Forth widely glittering in sweet unison.
E'en in the deep united are they seen,
Bright blue commingled with the smiling green;
Shall these together linked on earth and heaven,
By Erin's sons apart be torn and riven?
Down the steep rocks the rills meandering flow,
To feed the rivers murmuring below.

A welcome verdure clothes the joyous fields,
And May her rose-wreathed sceptre proudly wields.
Before mine eyes is spread a glorious scene,
Whose peer in splendour never has been seen!

The birds are up, their labours are begun,

And their gay plumage glitters in the sun.
They tend their offspring with parental care,
Chirp their wild notes, and wanton through the air.
The cuckoo, earliest harbinger of May,
Pours shrilly forth his uncouth melody.
The lark forth warbles from yon ivied tree

In mellow strain her morning jubilee ;
The linnet carols sweetly through the grove;
The listening woods resound with notes of love.
Th' unhappy nightingale prolongs her lay,
And lingers still, though all around be day.
The feathered choir their tuneful descant sing,
And hills and rocks the joyous echoes ring.
Through the vast air they whirl, a happy troop,
Nor fear they now the preybird's fatal swoop.
To see arise upon her snowy wing
The fairest offspring of the purple spring;
Soars through the air so tamelessly and wild,
And flying, onward lures the wayward child.
The wild bee buzzing on from flower to flower,
Sucks the sweet essence of the fragrant bower;
Then to her cell back hastes on heavy wing,
And stores the treasures of all bounteous spring,
A not improvident, though senseless thing.
The browsing flocks along the joyful plain,
Nip the green grass, and fly the anxious swain;
Skip through the verdant lawns with airy bound,
And frolic wildly o'er the fallow ground:
Wide o'er their pasture wantonly they stray;
The shepherd sweetly plays his roundelay;

With simple melody attunes his reed,
To many a glowing act and gallant deed.
The listless ploughman winds his path along,
And cheers his drudging labour with a song.
By the green margin of some gurgling stream
The lover wildly strikes his dearest theme,
Awakes his lyre to sound the notes of love,
And fondly gazes on the heavens above.
The peasant girl strolls widely through the vale,
Culls the wild flowers, and breathes the balmy gale.
Woo'd by the fragrant freshness of the air,
Shunning their sleepless pillows, damsels fair,
Along the glade with light step onward borne,
Trip gladly forth to scent the honeyed morn.
The youths all joyous through the boundless sea
Stretch the wide net to snare her progeny:
Or urge their flying steeds full many a rood,
Or plunge their bodies in the ocean's flood.
While trembling, stumbling, tottering along,
The aged mingle with the happy throng;
The motley group far sporting o'er the green,
Attest the splendour of the dazzling scene.
The spheres, and peaceful elements agree
In undisturbed and mutual harmony;
Earth pours to heaven her joy-resounding voice;
Nature is glad, and all her works rejoice!

T. W. B.

Our readers will concur with us in the opinion, that in the above lines the youthful author displays a fertile imagination and great powers of description.

THE CHILD'S OWN STORY BOOK.* THE juvenile portion of the community are under the deepest obligations to Messrs. Darton and Clark. From their bibliopolic premises in Holborn Hill, have issued a succession of works especially addressed to the rising generation, and which have, in every instance, possessed the merit of being peculiarly adapted, from the quality of their pictorial illustrations, and the moral tendency of their literature, to please the eye and improve the mind. The present little volume is one of the most interesting of the series. The difficulty of an author in suiting his matter and manner to the capacity of the youthful intellect, is much greater than is generally supposed. That difficulty, Mrs. Jerram has completely overcome. could not imagine any thing more calculated to arrest the attention of children, or to benefit their tender minds. The object of the authoress in writing the little volume, and the character of the book itself, will be best inferred from her prefatory observations." In writing," she says, "the following simple stories, it has been my most earnest desire to awaken in the hearts of little children, kindly and affectionate dispositions towards each other, their Creator, and his works; and to implant in their minds, in a cheerful and pleasing manner, the first principles of religion.

We

"To mothers and nurses, I trust these stories may prove useful; as similar circumstances to those herein related and referred to, must naturally occur to almost every child. It has been my endeavour to express them in a pleasing and simple style, so that a child at the age of three years may perfectly understand them. As a nursery book, I trust it will be found a welcome and pleasant companion and if within its pages be contained any lesson which may prove lastingly useful to only one little

child, I shall not lose my reward. But it is my fervent hope, that not in the heart of one only, but of many little children, the sentiments of virtue which I have sought to illustrate, may be called up and quickened by my humble efforts; and that the seed thus sown may bear everlasting and heavenly fruit."

As a specimen of the manner in which Mrs. Jerram addresses herself to her youthful readers, take the following, called

THE LITTLE SHIP.

"I have made a little ship of cork, and am going to let it sail in this basin of water. Now let us fancy this water to be the North Pacific Ocean, and those small pieces of cork at that side to be the Friendly Islands, and this little man in the ship to be Captain Cook going to find them. Do you know that the Friendly Islands were raised by corals?' I suppose they were.' 'Do you know where Captain Cook was born?' He was born at Marton, a village in the North Riding of Yorkshire."" The following is the pictorial illustration which accompanies the above.

WENTWORTH CASTLE, Yorkshire, the seat of Frederick Vernon Wentworth, esq., is one of the largest mansions of England, and well worthy of a visit. It is situated about two miles south of the village of Barnsley. The castle was built about 1730, by Thomas earl of Strafford, whose arms and supporters, &c. appear over the centre window of the north front. Other compartments of the centre on this side are filled with ornamental wreaths, baskets of fruit and flowers, &c., giving the whole an elegant and picturesque effect. The east front of the castle is of a more modern character, and was erected about 1770, by William earl of Strafford. Its architecture is at once light and elegant. The portico is supported by six columns of the Corinthian order.

The hall is forty feet square, the roof divided into rich compartments, and supported by handsome Corinthian columns. The right side opens to a drawing room, forty feet by twenty-five, the chimney-piece of which, supported by two pillars of Sienna marble wreathed with white, has a fine effect. The door cases are elegantly carved and