Nay, worse subterfuges than these are more than openly hinted at in divers authors. One or two examples will suffice.
This Itch for play has likewise fatal been,
And more than Cupid draws the Ladies in,
A Thousand Guineas for Basset prevails,
A Bait when Cash runs low, that seldom fails;
And when the Fair One can't the Debt defray
In Sterling Coin, does Sterling Beauty pay.[142]
No wonder that Steele bursts out,[143] 'Oh, the damned Vice! That Women can imagine all Household Care, regard to Posterity, and fear of Poverty, must be sacrificed to a game at Cards.
A GAMBLING SCENE.
But we must not think that the fair ones monopolised the enjoyment of this passion—the sterner sex were equally culpable. Gaming houses were plentiful. The 'Groom Porter's' was still in full swing, vide this advertisement:[144] 'Whereas Her Majesty, by her Letters Patent to Thomas Archer Esq. constituting him Her Groom Porter, hath given full Power to him and such Deputies as he shall appoint, to supervise, regulate, and authorize (by and under the Rules, Conditions and Restrictions by the Law prescribed) all manner of Gaming within this Kingdom. And, whereas several of Her Majesty's Subjects, keeping Plays or Games in their Houses, have been lately abused, and had Moneys extorted from them by several ill disposed Persons, contrary to Law. These are therefore to give Notice, That no Person whatsoever, not producing his Authority from the said Groom Porter, under the Seal of his Office, hath any Power to act anything under the said Patent. And to the end that all such Persons offending as aforesaid may be proceeded against according to Law, it is hereby desired, that Notice be given of all such Abuses to the said Groom Porter, or his Deputies, at his Office at Mr. Stephenson's, a Scrivener's House, over against Old Man's Coffee House near Whitehall.'
The Groom Porter's own Gaming House must have been the scene of brawls.[145]
Sir Geo. Airy. Oh, I honour Men of the Sword; and I presume this Gentleman is lately come from Spain or Portugal—by his Scars.
Marplot. No, really, Sir George, mine sprung from civil Fury: Happening last night into the Groom Porter's—I had a strong Inclination to go ten Guineas with a sort of a—sort of a—kind of a Milk Sop, as I thought; A Pox of the Dice, he flung out, and my Pockets being empty, as Charles knows they sometimes are, he prov'd a Surly North Briton, and broke my face for my Deficiency.