From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

It is a pity that there should be a serpent in this garden of Paradise. But here he is—a huge green monster, twining among the flowers and the orange groves. Midway between Mentone and Nice is the little principality of Monaco, the smallest sovereignty in Europe, covering only a rocky peninsula that projects into the sea, and a small space around it. But small as it is, it is large enough to furnish a site for a pest worse than a Lazaretto—worse than the pirates of the Barbary coast that once preyed on the commerce of the Mediterranean—for here is the greatest gambling house in Europe. The famous—or infamous—establishments that so long flourished on the Rhine, at Homburg and Baden Baden, drawing hundreds and thousands into their whirlpools of ruin, have been broken up since the petty principalities have been absorbed in the great German empire. Thus driven from one point to another, the gamblers have been, like the evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none, till at last, by offering a large sum—I heard that it was four hundred thousand francs (eighty thousand dollars) a year—to the Prince of Monaco, they have induced him to sell himself to the Devil, and to allow his petty State to become a den of thieves. Hearing of this notorious establishment, I had a curiosity to see it, and so we were driven to Monte Carlo, which is the pretty name for a very bad place. Surely never was the palace of pleasure decked with more attractions. The place has been made like a garden. Extensive grounds have been laid out, where orange trees and palms are in full bloom. Winding walks conduct the visitor to retired and shady retreats. The building itself is of stately proportions, and one goes up the steps as if he were ascending a temple. Within the broad vestibule servants in livery receive the stranger with studied politeness, as a welcome guest, and with courtly smiles bow him in. The vestibule opens into a large assembly room for concerts and dancing, where one of the finest bands in Europe discourses delicious music. Entrance is free everywhere, except into the gaming-room, which however requires only your card as a proof of your respectability. One must give his name, and country, and profession! See how careful they are to have only the most select society. I was directed to the office, where two secretaries, of sober aspect, who looked as if they might be retired Methodist clergymen, required my name and profession. I felt that I was getting on rather dangerous ground, but answered by giving only my surname and the profession of editor, and received a card of admission, and passed in. We were in a large hall, with lofty ceiling, and walls decorated in a style that might become an apartment in a royal palace. There were three tables, at two of which gaming was going on. At the third the gamblers sat around idle, waiting for customers, for "business" is rather slack just now, as the season has not begun. A few weeks later, when the hotels along the sea are filled up, the place will be thronged, and all these tables will be kept going till midnight. At the two where play was in progress, we stood apart and watched the scene. There was a long table, covered with green cloth (I said it was a green monster), over which were scattered piles of gold and silver, and around which were some twenty-five persons, mostly men, though there were two or three women (it is well known that some of the most infatuated and desperate gamblers at Baden Baden were women). The game was what is known as roulette or rouge et noir [red and black].[5] You lay down a piece of coin, a napoleon or a sovereign, or, if you cannot afford that, a five-franc piece, for they are so democratic that they are willing to take the small change of the poor, as well as the hundred or thousand francs of the rich. The wager is that, when a horizontal wheel which is sunk in the table—the roulette—is set revolving, a little ball like a boy's marble, which is set whirling in it, will rest on the black or red spot. Of course the thing is so managed that the chances are many to one that you will lose your money. But it looks fair, and the greenhorn is easily persuaded that it is an even chance, and that he is as likely to win as to lose, until experience makes him a sadder and a wiser man. Of those about the table, it was quite apparent, even to my inexperienced eye, that the greater part were professional gamblers. There is a look about them that is unmistakable. My companion, who had looked on half curious and half frightened, and who shrank up to my side (although everything is kept in such order, and with such an outward show of respectability, that there is no danger), remarked the imperturbable coolness of the players. The game proceeded in perfect silence, and no one betrayed the least emotion, whether he lost or won. But I explained to her that this was probably owing in part to the fact that they were mostly employés of the establishment, and had no real stake in the issue; but if they were not, a practised gambler never betrays any emotion. This is a part of his trade. He schools himself to it as an Indian does, who scorns to show suffering, even if he is bound at the stake. I noticed only one man who seemed to take his losses to heart. I presumed he was an outsider, and as he lost heavily, his face flushed, but he said nothing. This is the general course of the game. Not a word is spoken, even when men are losing thousands. Instances have occurred in which men gambled away their last dollar, and then rose from the table and blew out their brains—which interrupted the play disagreeably for a few moments; but the body was removed, the blood washed away, and the game proceeded as usual.

When we had watched the silent spectacle for half an hour, we felt that we had quite enough, and after strolling through the grounds and listening to the music, returned to our carriage and drove off, moralizing on the strange scene we had witnessed.

Did I regret that I had been to see this glittering form of temptation and sin? On the contrary, I wished that every pastor in New York could have stood there and looked on at that scene. We have had quite enough of firing at all kinds of wickedness at long range. It is time to move our batteries up a little nearer, and engage the enemy at close quarters. If those pastors had seen what we saw in that half hour, they would realize, as they cannot now, the dangers to which young men are exposed in our cities. They would see with their own eyes how broad is the road, and how alluring it is made, that leads to destruction, and how many there be that go in thereat. I look upon Monte Carlo as the very mouth of the pit, covered up with flowers, so that giddy creatures dance along its perilous edge till it crumbles under their feet. Thousands who come here with no intention of gambling, put down a small sum "just to try their luck," and find that "a fool and his money are soon parted." Many do not end with losing a few francs, or even a few sovereigns. It is well if they do not leave behind them what they can ill afford to lose. Very many young men leave what is not their own. That such a place of temptation should be allowed to exist here in this lovely spot on the shores of the Mediterranean, is a disgrace to Monaco, and to the powers on both sides of it, France and Italy, which, if they have no legal right to interfere, might by a vigorous protest put an end to the accursed thing. Probably it will after awhile provoke its own destruction. I should be glad to see the foul nest of gamblers that have congregated here, broken up, and the wretches sent to the galleys as convicts, or forced in some way to earn an honest living.

But is not this vice of gambling very wide-spread? Does it not exist in more forms than one, and in more countries than the little State of Monaco? I am afraid the vice lies deep in human nature, and may be found in some shape in every part of the world. Is there not a great deal of gambling in Wall street? When men bet on the rise and fall of stocks, when they sell what they do not possess, or buy that for which they have no money to pay, do they not risk their gains or losses on a chance, as much as those who stake thousands on the turning of a wheel, on a card or a die? It is the old sin of trying to get the fruits of labor without labor, to get something for nothing, that is the curse of all modern cities and countries, that demoralizes young men in New York and San Francisco, as well as in Paris and London. The great lesson which we all need to learn, is the duty and the dignity of labor. When a man never claims anything which he does not work for, then he may feel an honest pride in his gains, and may slowly grow in fortune without losing the esteem of the good, or his own manly self-respect.

Leaving this gorgeous den of thieves behind us, we haste away to the mountains; for while the railroad seeks its level path along the very shore of the sea, the Corniche road, built before railroads were thought of, finds its only passage over stupendous heights. We have now to climb a spur of the Alps, which here pushes its great shoulder close to the sea. It is a toilsome path for our little ponies, but they pull up bravely, height after height. Every one we mount, we hope to find the summit; but we keep going on and on, and up and up, till it seems like a Jacob's Ladder, which reaches to Heaven. When on one of the highest points, we look right down into Monte Carlo as into the crater of a volcano. It does not burn or smoke, but it has an open mouth, and many there be that there go down quick into hell.

We are at last on the top, and pass on from one peak to another, all the time enjoying a wide outlook over the blue Mediterranean, which lies calmly at the foot of these great mountains, with only a white sail here and there dotting the mighty waters.

It was nearly sunset when we came in sight of Nice, gleaming in the distance on the sea-shore. We had been riding all day, and our driver, a bright young Savoyard, seemed eager to have the long journey over, and so he put his ponies to their speed, and we came down the mountain as if shot out of a gun, and rattled through the streets of Nice at such a break-neck pace, that the police shouted after us, lest we should run over somebody. But there was no stopping our little Jehu, and on we went at full speed, till suddenly he reined us up with a jerk before the hotel.

In the old days when I first travelled in the south of Europe, Nice was an Italian town. It belonged to the small kingdom of Sardinia. But in 1860, as a return for the help of Napoleon in the campaign of 1859 against Austria, by which Victor Emmanuel gained Lombardy, it was ceded with Savoy to France, and now is a French city. I think it has prospered by the change. It has grown very much, until it has some fifty thousand inhabitants. Its principal attraction is as a winter resort for English and Americans. There are a number of Protestant churches, French and English. The French Evangelical church has for its pastor Rev. Leon Pilatte, who is well known in America.

It was now Saturday night, and the Sabbath drew on. Never was its rest more grateful, and never did it find us in a more restful spot. Everybody comes here for repose, to find rest and healing. The place is perhaps a little saddened by the presence of so many invalids, some of whom come here only to die. In yonder hotel on the shore, the heir of the throne of all the Russias breathed his last a few winters ago. These clear skies and this soft air could not save him, even when aided by all the medical skill of Europe. I should not have great faith in the restoring power of this or of any climate for one far gone in consumption. But certainly as a place of rest, if it is permitted to man to find rest anywhere on earth, it must be here, with the blue skies above, and the soft flowery earth below, and with no sound to disturb, but only the murmur of the moaning, melancholy sea.

But a traveller is not allowed to rest. He comes not to stay, but only to see—to look, and then to disappear; and so, after a short two days in Nice, we took a quick return by night, and in eight hours found ourselves again in Genoa.