If men fail in lawful business, God pities, and
society commiserates; but where in the Bible, or in society, is there
any consolation for the gambler? From what tree of the forest oozes
there a balm that can soothe the gamester's heart? In that bottle
where God keeps the tears of his children, are there any tears of the
gambler? Do the winds that come to kiss the faded cheek of sickness,
and to cool the heated brow of the laborer, whisper hope and cheer to
the emaciated victim of the game of hazard? When an honest man is in
trouble, he has sympathy. "Poor fellow!" they say. But do gamblers
come to weep at the agonies of the gambler? In Northumberland was one
of the finest estates in England. Mr. Porter owned it, and in a year
gambled it all away. Having lost the last acre of the estate, he came
down from the saloon and got into his carriage; went back; put up his
horses, and carriage, and town house, and played. He threw and
lost. He started home, and on a side alley met a friend from whom
he borrowed ten guineas; went back to the saloon, and before a great
while had won twenty thousand pounds.
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