Hogarth lent his tremendous power to the portrayal of the ruined gamester, and shows it to the life in his print of the gaming house in the 'Rake's Progress.'
Three stages of that species of madness which attends gaming are there described. On the first shock all is inward dismay. The ruined gamester is represented leaning against a wall with his arms across, lost in an agony of horror. Shortly after this horrible gloom bursts into a storm and fury. He tears in pieces whatever comes near him, and, kneeling down, invokes curses on himself. His next attack is on others—on every one whom he imagines to have been instrumental in his ruin. The eager joy of the winning gamester, the attention of the usurer, and the profound reverie of the highwayman, are all strongly marked in this wonderful picture.
HOW MANY GAMESTERS LIVE BY PLAY?
It is an observation made by those who calculate on the gaming world, that above nine-tenths of the persons who play LIVE by it.
Now, as the ordinary establishment of a GENTEEL gamester, as he is commonly called, cannot be less than L1000 per annum, luck, which turns out EQUAL in the long run, will not support him; he must therefore LIVE by what they call among themselves the BEST OF THE GAME—or, in plain English, cheating.
So much for the inner and outer life of gamblers. And now I shall introduce Mr Ben. Disraeli, recounting, in the happiest vein of his younger days, a magnificent gambling scene, quite on a par with the legend of the Hindoo epic before quoted,(12) and which, I doubt not, will (to use the young Disraeli's own words) make the reader 'scud along and warm up into friskiness.'
(12) Chapter II.
A curious phrase occurs in the 9th chapter of 'The Young Duke,' in the paragraph at the beginning, after the words—'O ye immortal gods!'
Although the scene of the drama is part of a novel, yet there can be no doubt of its being 'founded on fact'—at any rate, I think there never was a narrative of greater verisimilitude.
'After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compounding some wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to Ecarte. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemed a general understanding among all the parties, that to-night was to be a pitched battle—and they began at once, very briskly. Yet, in spite of their universal determination, midnight arrived without anything very decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the baron's elbow, and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. All this meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room.