The unfortunate man, who had now lost about ten thousand dollars, articulated a number of bad words, and, turning away, left the room with as sad-looking a face as I ever saw under a hat. No one paid any attention to him. The game went on, and he was soon forgotten.
Of course, others were betting, winning and losing all this time, for there were a score around the table, and it would be no exaggeration to say that at least a hundred thousand dollars changed hands while I was standing there. I have merely mentioned this one gentleman in particular, because his case was, perhaps, the saddest of any that came under my notice, and made the greatest impression on my mind. Whether he returned with any more cash, or whether he could raise any more, I do not know, as I soon after left the room and returned to Albany; but, if he was able to raise any more “spondoolix,” there is little doubt that he tried it again that evening, for the more bitter lessons of this kind a man learns, the more they don’t do him any good. “I will try it again till I at least win back what I have lost,” is his plea. If he has been fortunate, and won, he will say “I seem to be pretty lucky; it’s worth trying again.” He does and often finds it is worth trying again—to the banker. Win or lose, a gambler will be a gambler.
CHAPTER XVI.
The Sail Boat.
NEXT day I left Albany for Rochester, via the New York Central Railroad. Those who have done much traveling by railroad must have been annoyed and tormented from time to time by the flying dust, and the smoke and cinders from the locomotive. Every dying spark that flies from the chimney seems to go right for the eyes of any unhappy visage that dares to thrust itself from a car window for a breath of fresh air or a glance at the scenery ahead. And O, how it does hurt! The sting of a bumblebee is joy compared with it.
On this occasion I determined to adopt a plan that would enable me to thrust my head out all the time if I chose, and stare at the locomotive with impunity. Before leaving Albany, I purchased a pair of fifty-cent goggles—window-glass focus—which I wore during my journey from Albany to Rochester (a distance of over two hundred miles). Hence, my eyes being secure, I paid no attention to the smoke and dust I was continually breathing; and the result was, that next morning my throat and lungs were so sore as to interfere materially with my articulation, and for some weeks I was afflicted with a regular “grave-yard cough,” that I had reason to fear would merge into some permanent pulmonary affection. I got over it, though, and I also got over wearing goggles on an express train.
To this day, I can not help shuddering as I contemplate what a frightful appearance I must have presented with those goggles on. A good-looking young man like myself, on a crutch, with such an immense round patch on either side of his nose, must have been a marvel to look at. I regret that I did not procure a mirror, and take a look at myself while wearing them, for I have never had the courage to put them on since.
My memory records that several passengers, with subdued smiles on their countenances, manifested the most intense interest in my welfare, and asked me what was the matter with my eyes? In reply to this impertinent question, I gave them to understand that it was an hereditary weakness of the “windows of the soul;” and intimated that the Smith family had, from time immemorial, been amateur astronomers, and had done a good deal of gazing at the moon and stars.
The New York Central Railroad takes its way through the beautiful Mohawk valley. That valley is famed in history, and we read of a great many bloody scenes enacted there by the savage Mohawk tribe; but I think that now, with its green meadows, its fields of grain, its grazing sheep and cattle, its farm-houses and dairies, with PEACE smiling over all, it is far more beautiful and interesting than it was in its wildness, when the red-skinned son of nature made it his home, and followed killing bears, deer, and the pale-faces for a living.
There is one grand picture in the Mohawk valley which I can not forbear to mention. It is an enchanting cascade. The amount of water is not great, but it comes streaming down from a height of two hundred feet, sparkling in the sunbeams, and bounding from rock to rock like a thing of life. For calm, quiet enjoyment, I would rather sit among the trees that hover about this romantic cascade and listen to its murmurs, than on the banks of the Niagara, and hear the roars of that grand old cataract.
It was after night-fall when we reached Rochester, and as I wanted to stay there a few days, I went into an hotel that was in the same building with the depot itself, and registered my name. Next morning I walked out and looked about me. Rochester is a very pleasant city of about sixty thousand inhabitants, and is situated at the Falls of the Genesee river, seven miles from Lake Ontario. I say at the Falls, for the city is built on all sides of the cataract, except one. It occupies either shore, and one of its principal streets, with its solid rows of buildings, actually crosses the river on an arched bridge or viaduct about two hundred yards above the Falls.