With the exception of New Orleans—and possibly of Chicago—it is doubtful whether public gambling ever took deeper root in any Western city than the metropolis of Missouri. This fact may be attributed partly to the mixed character of the early population, in which were blended the elements of the French and Southern natures. Games of chance seem to appeal more strongly to the hot-blooded temperament which is kindled into warmth by a Southern sun, than to the more phlegmatic disposition of those who have been reared in Northern latitudes. Another cause for the popularity and prevalence of gambling in St. Louis is to be found in the fact that for many years that city enjoyed the distinction of being the chief commercial centre of the Mississippi valley. Not only was it the entrepot and point of transfer for vast quantities of freight, the handling of which gave employment to a large number of men, but emigrants on their way to the far West found the city a convenient place in which they might rest and recruit, and at the same time purchase supplies.

The result of this latter circumstance was that professional gamblers from all points of the compass flocked thither, making the city a sort of headquarters from which to make predatory excursions upon the steamboats that plied the lower Mississippi. Scores of the best known sporting men in the United States have, at one time or another, made St. Louis their abiding place.

Among the earliest professionals to locate there were “Jim” Ames, Henry Perritt, Bob O’Blennis, David Foster, William and Rufus Sanders, Pete Manning, Thorwegian, Hewey Gains, George Phegley, Jr., Henry Godfrey, Jim Greely, Alex. Tyler, Capt. Roberts and Ecker.

Of all these, perhaps O’Blennis was the best known; not so much for his skillful dealing as for his pugnacious disposition. He was the terror of all who knew him, and was always ready—as the slang phrase runs—“to fight at the drop of a hat.” He was struck by paralysis, and for several years before his death was unable to do anything for himself without the assistance of a colored servant, who accompanied him wherever he went.

These were succeeded by Ryan—who killed a man in Nebraska City and served a term in the penitentiary therefor—John Dewing, Ed Dowling, Kelley, “Bill” Close, “Dr.” Ladd, “Tonny” Blennerhassett and “Count” Sobieski.

The latter married a woman who had been the plaintiff in a breach of promise suit, which was one of the causes celebres of the city’s judicial history. He occupied gorgeously appointed apartments near Mercantile Library Hall, in which, on Sundays, he was wont to entertain a choice party of congenial spirits with banquets which Epicurus himself might have envied. At the conclusion of the feast the “Count” would produce his dealing box and layout, and proceed to entertain his visitors by dealing a quiet game of faro, the result usually being that when the party broke up for the evening the guests found that they had transferred most of their surplus cash from their pockets to those of their courteous but more fortunate (?) host. Liquor, however, proved Sobieski’s ruin. His wife separated from him because of his intemperance, and he wandered about, aimlessly, until death overtook him at Salt Lake City. His widow went after his body, which she buried in St. Louis. She received $10,000 on his policy of life insurance, the payments on which she had kept up during the years of their estrangement.

Other “old timers,” who flourished here before the war, were Dow Catlin, Charley Coulter, Joe Butch, Frank Smith, Dan Ward and “Bill” Williams.

In the early days of public gaming it was popularly supposed that play was conducted “on the square,” and as a matter of fact, “brace” games were not so notoriously common then as in later years. Yet there was never a time in the history of this vice when professional gamesters would hesitate to resort to unfair advantages when their funds were at a low ebb, or they believed that the trick might be safely played. But in the exciting days which marked the beginning of the war, “skin” gambling became more common, and in 1862-63 there were “brace” dealers in abundance.

Of the skilled artists in the manipulation of the pasteboards at that period, whose faces were familiar to all who sought the “tiger” in his lair were George Griffen (a Bostonian, who, coming to St. Louis well-nigh penniless, soon acquired an interest in four gaming establishments), StuartStuart Eddy, George Phegley, August Whitman and Jack Silvia. Of the latter, it is credibly reported, and generally believed by the fraternity, that on one occasion when he had lost all his ready cash, together with all that he could borrow on his watch and jewelry, he actually pawned his artificial teeth (mounted on a gold plate) in order to obtain fresh funds with which to play against the bank. He died in Leadville, a pauper, after having won at gaming many thousands. Money was subscribed to bring his remains to St. Louis for burial.

Besides there were “Gabe” Foster and Ben Burnish, afterward well known in Chicago, who ran a place opposite the Planters House, there being three others in the block. It was about this time that “Dick” Roach made his appearance in St. Louis. He came from Detroit, a beardless youth, but soon found employment as a dealer in a house located at the Southeast corner of Pine and 4th streets. He had not been long so engaged when his peculiar talents in this direction began to develop themselves. As a player against the bank he “made a large stake,” and at once secured an interest in a gaming establishment. His fortune is to-day estimated at $500,000, and his career furnishes a striking exception to the general rule applicable to the lives of men of his profession.

The members of the fraternity who have been mentioned may be said to have constituted the first and second “crops” of St Louis gamblers. The craze which followed the discovery of silver ore at Leadville, Colorado, brought a third. Among them were such men as Hank Wider, Johnnie Morgan, Lou Lee, Tom Daniels, Al Masterson, “Jimmy” White and John Hall, the latter being generally better known under his sobriquet of “Coal-oil Johnnie;” Bensby Brothers, Charley King, Pete Manning, Bill Binford, Joe Duke, Charley Durgie, Cave Brothers, Harry Embree, Bill Kirrick, Lightborn Brothers, Cill Howard, Bob Ray, and Sam Cade, who died suddenly.

Of all these perhaps “Coal-oil Johnnie” is the best known. His career was an eventful one, he having contrived to compress, within his comparatively short life, enough adventurous escapades to fill a volume. His end formed a fitting termination to his vicious course. On leaving St. Louis he went to Chicago, where he obtained employment as dealer in a “brace” house. He left the latter city suddenly “between two days,” taking with him the “bank roll” of the parties for whom he was working. His wife followed in quest of him. She found him at Terre Haute, Indiana, dead drunk. In his company was a woman. Enraged beyond endurance at the sight, Mrs. Hall drew from her pocket a revolver, the contents of whose chambers she emptied into her husband’s body. She was, of course, at once arrested and in due time tried, but her counsel experienced no difficulty in securing from the jury an acquittal of his client on the ground of emotional insanity.

At the time of which I am speaking “skin” houses were far more plentiful in St. Louis than “square” ones, and the city at the junction of the Mississippi and Missouri afforded even a better field for the operations of blacklegs than has even her rival by the shores of Lake Michigan in the latter’s palmiest days. There was little effort made to clothe the business with even the flimsiest veil of secrecy. All the resorts were wide open and, in the slang of the fraternity, “everything went.” “Steerers” were almost as numerous as “suckers,” and, when the city detectives announced their intention to arrest these gentry on sight the latter snapped their fingers at the police, openly set the authorities at defiance, and brazenly continued to ply their nefarious calling. Gambling was practically unrestrained, and play ran high. Business men, lawyers, doctors, artisans, actors—men from every walk of life—gambled as a pastime, while those who made the practice of the vice their sole business thrived proportionately.

“Squeals” from victims were of daily occurrence, and the authorities found themselves compelled to take notice of the complaints. It is not too much to say, however, that the executive department of the city was for many years honeycombed with corruption. One police official, who occupied a position very near the top round of the ladder was understood to have realized $28,000 as the result of his extortion of blackmail from gaming-house keepers. It followed, as a matter of course, that when the officers of the law found themselves compelled to make a raid upon one of these resorts the descent was accomplished in a most perfunctory manner. The common practice was to send notice to the proprietors in advance that they might “expect visitors” at an hour named. The gamblers being thus forewarned, the police rarely found anything to justify stringent measures. The paraphernalia was generally safely stowed away out of sight; and if, by chance, any gambling instruments were captured, their owners were generally privately advised as to where, when and how they might recover their property.

As tending to illustrate how the mania for gaming had taken hold of all classes of society, I cannot forbear to relate the following anecdote of Mr. F——, who, at the time of which I am speaking, was president of one of the St. Louis banks. While the tale may bring a smile to the lips of the man who, even as an amateur, has taken a hand in a “little game of draw,” it is not without its moral. The story runs thus: One morning as the janitor of Mr. F——’s bank was swinging open the heavy doors which guarded the treasure of the institution from the marauding hands of covetous midnight strollers, he discovered sitting on the steps three tired-looking citizens, one of whom clutched tightly in his hands a sealed package. But a short time elapsed before the cashier appeared upon the scene. “Gentlemen,” he suavelysuavely asked, “how can I accommodateaccommodate you? Do you wish to make a deposit?” The man with the package eagerly assured him that he had come to negotiate a loan. “What security do you offer?” asked the cashier; “government bonds?” “Government nothing!” answered the would-be borrower. “I’ve got something that knocks 7-30’s clean out of the ropes.” And producing the bundle which he had so jealously guarded, his two companions gathering close around, he proceeded to explain the situation: “You see,” he went on, “these gentlemen and myself have been playing poker all night. I’ve got a dead sure thing, but they’re trying to ‘raise me’ out. I want $5,000 to ‘see’ them with. See here.” And he unsealed the packet and showed its contents to the astounded bank official. “This,” he explained, “is my hand. I’ll show it to you, but don’t let them (indicating his companions) see it. You see we sealed it up so the cards couldn’t be monkeyed with.” The cashier looked at the cards; they were four kings and an ace. (This was before the days of a “royal flush,” and beat any other hand then recognized.) Coldly did the financier regard the precious pasteboards, and austere was his glance as he returned them, saying in freezing tones, “this bank, sir, doesn’t lend on cards.” The disappointed applicant for a loan turned sadly away, dejectedly saying to his comrades, “boys, I’m a chump if he isn’t going to let me be frozed out on this hand.” And he gazed ruefully down the street. At this moment Mr. F—— opportunely came in sight, and was at once recognized. Quick as thought the distressed gamester appealed to him for assistance. The bank president had himself been spending the night at the poker table, and he comprehended the situation at a glance. Rushing behind the bank’s counter he seized several bags of double eagles and accompanied the trio to the room where the game had been in progress. In a brief time he returned to the bank, threw down the amount of the loan, together with $500 interest on the accommodation, and glared at the cashier. “Ever play poker?” he asked. The abashed official meekly confessed his ignorance of the game. “Well, sir,” pursued the president in tones of deep earnestness not unmixed with a touch of sarcasm, “if you had you would know better what good collateral is. You might as well understand, once for all, that four kings, with an ace for a confidence card, is good in this institution for our entire assets.”

One of the best known characters in St. Louis in those days, and who afterward achieved no little notoriety all over the West, was John Lawler. He was a jovial, reckless, devil-may-care fellow, but possessing many traits which rendered him popular among his acquaintances. He first appeared among St. Louis sporting men as a “roper” and venturesome player against the bank. Innumerable anecdotes are told of him illustrating his character and setting forth his experience, both in that city and elsewhere. His ups and downs were numerous and abrupt. One evening, while sitting in a restaurant waiting for his supper, there entered a man from Newark, Ohio, with whom he had a slight acquaintance. He lost no time in engaging him in conversation, and soon succeeded in “steering” him into a “brace” house, where he lost $340. As soon as Lawler could get away from his companion he returned to the room to claim his percentage on the amount won, which was handed to him at once. Repairing to another resort he seated himself at a faro table and began to play. Luck favored him and it was not long before he found himself $1,100 ahead. He “cashed in his checks,” and privately determined to purchase an interest in a small game on the succeeding day. Among the bystanders, however, was George Ross, a faro dealer, a Philadelphian, and a most jovial companion. He suggested to Lawler that it was a pleasant night for a drive. The latter assented, and the two drove to the Mansion House, where they had supper, which they washed down with several bottles of wine. On their return to the city, Lawler said that it was his “lucky night,” and announced his intention of winning enough to reimburse him for the expenses of the jaunt. He went to a gaming house and again began to “buck the tiger,” but the fickle goddess deserted him and he arose from the table without a dollar. He was a man of most irascible temper, and when he lost would frequently butt his head against the wall and attempt to pull off his ears. On one occasion when he had dropped his last cent at the faro table, he became so excited that he threw an oyster loaf which he was taking home with him at the ceiling of the room directly over the dealer’s head. The scene that followed was a laughable one. The string broke and the oysters fell in all directions, a fair portion of the loaf bespattering the dealer’s face. From St. Louis he went to Chicago, where, in 1867, he became interested in some of the best houses in that city, being associated with such men as Captain Ash Holland, George Holt, Mat Robbins, and McDonald. At the time of the great fire he was reputed to be worth $40,000. It is said that he sank $20,000 in leasing, altering and refitting the Southern Hotel, at the corner of Wabash avenue and Twenty-second street. He also lost heavily at faro, often walking up to the table and betting $1,000 on a single turn.

While in Chicago he became involved in a shooting scrape, the result of which proved very serious. The party whom he shot was named George Duvall, a “sure thing” player, as they are styled, who had played “monte,” “top and bottom,” and “high hands” at euchre up and down the Arkansas, Red, and Upper Mississippi and Missouri rivers. He had won considerable amounts, of which he lost in playing against faro bank. A few years ago he married at Cincinnati, and since then has published a book on gambling, in which he recites many of his own personal experiences.

At the time of the shooting above mentioned, a woman with whom Duvall was well acquainted complained to him that Lawler had insulted her upon the street. Duvall proceeded to hunt him up, and on meeting him assaulted him, knocking him into a mud puddle, where he left him. As soon as possible Lawler returned to his room, where he changed his clothing, and having armed himself with a revolver sought out Duvall, whom he found on the south-east corner of Clark and Madison streets. He opened fire at once, hitting his adversary in the hand. Duvall took refuge behind a telegraph pole and thus protected himself from the three additional shots which Lawler fired before he was arrested. He was indicted for assault with intent to kill, tried, convicted, and sentenced to the penitentiary. A new trial was granted, and eight months after the shooting he was acquitted. During his incarceration his hair had turned from black to white, and by the time he had liquidated his indebtedness to his counsel he was entirely penniless. Although he afterwards succeeded in getting upon his feet again, and owned an interest in several gambling houses, his old-time luck seemed to have deserted him, and he was compelled to commence dealing for stipulated wages. When Mayor Roche closed up the games, he opened an elegant club room on Clark street, with cozily furnished apartments in the rear, in which he kept house with an estimable lady whom he had married. The police raided his place. The mortgage on his chattels was foreclosed, and he succeeded in saving only $100 out of the wreck. With this sum he sent his wife to her relatives, and he himself started for the Pacific Slope. He is at present understood to be at Tacoma, where he is reported to have acquired some real estate and to be doing well.

“Bob” Potee another well-known and exceedingly popular sporting man of St. Louis, met a sad fate. He was sober, gentlemanly, and well bred, and a high roller. He was married and well-to-do. He removed from St. Louis to Kansas City, where fortune so frowned upon him that, becoming despondent and weary of life, he disappeared and his body was afterwards found in the river, into which he had thrown himself.

Another suicide among the gamblers at St. Louis was John Timmons, who killed himself at Leadville, for some unexplained cause. His rash act occasioned much surprise among his numerous friends, to whom he had always seemed the very incarnation of cheerfulness and high animal spirits.

Yet another victim of faro who came to a similar end was Captain Ash Hopkins, one of the most popular river captains who sailed from St. Louis to New Orleans. He was loved and respected by all who knew him, but after a debauch in which he had lost several thousand dollars at one bout with the “tiger,” he was found dead at sunrise of the following day at the Southern Hotel. He found himself unable to meet his responsibilities in this world and had madly appealed to the court of eternal justice.

Far different, however, was the manner in which Charley Teenan met death. Although a professional gambler, he had many of the elements of a hero. He was dealing faro in a resort opposite the Southern Hotel at the time of the burning of that immense caravansary. Seeing the flames, he rushed from his rooms across the street to the blazing building. Up the ladder he went and into the hallway, seeking whom he might rescue. Once, twice, thrice, four times, he brought half suffocated victims to the window and sent them down the ladder. Once more he went back on his errand of mercy, but the flames and smoke repulsed him and he saw that he had no time to lose if he were to save himself. Returning to the window he saw that the ladder had been removed to another casement, in order to rescue others. He climbed upon the sill and sprang toward the ladder, hoping to catch it. Fatal leap! Missing his hold, he fell an inert mass upon the stone flagging below, and was picked up mortally wounded. He was carried to his gambling room and laid out on his faro table.

John Mackey, another old-time St. Louis gambler, fell from his chair, dead; alcoholism being the cause of his demise. Fisher, a case-keeper at a Fourth street gaming house, was found dead on a lounge in the rooms when the place was opened for business in the morning. He sprang from aa good New England family, and was well educated and well read. He was a natural card player and was an expert at many games, and particularly proficient at boston, cribbage and whist. Professionals had won large sums of money through betting on his play. The original cause of his downfall was his love for liquor, and his downward career was rapid. He was a man of brains who might have made his mark in some one of the learned professions, but who deliberately yielded himself a victim to a strange infatuation, which caused him to end his life as a case-keeper in a common “brace” house.

It surely seems as though Heaven had attached to the vice of gaming a peculiar curse. Money won through this means rarely proves of benefit to its possessor, as is shown by the large number of gamblers who have accumulated considerable sums and yet died paupers. Another circumstance which cannot fail to impress itself on the thoughtful mind is the fact that so many of the profession have, as the slang phrase runs, “died with their boots on,” while their death has remained unavenged by the law. Charley Dalton, a St. Louis sport, was shot in the back in the post-office at Salt Lake City, by one Obie, who charged him with having insulted his wife. Alex. Crick, a protégé of “Old Jew” Abrams, a St. Louis pawnbroker, who served a term in the penitentiary for receiving stolen goods, was shot and killed by a courtesan in a house of ill-fame.

A somewhat similar case of those already described was that of “Star” Davis, a popular sporting man of St. Louis, after whom the celebrated racer, “Star Davis,” was named. He had a large acquaintance, by whom he was well liked. He was a man of intelligence and refined tastes, and an exceedingly venturesome player. While on one of his periodical sprees, being grossly intoxicated, he fell down stairs and broke his neck.

The author well remembers a member of the fraternity who frequented the gaming resorts of St. Louis during the period of his residence in that city. He was familiarly known by the sobriquet of “Sugar Bob.” When I first began to “steer” for faro banks in St. Louis, I found some difficulty in inducing the victims to enter the house for which I was acting. Accordingly, I employed “Sugar Bob” to decoy men whom I selected, dividing my percentage with him. He received this singular cognomen from the oily manner in which he used to sympathize with “suckers” after they had been fleeced. If his honeyed words failed to console them for their losses, it was universally conceded that there was no further use for attempting to employ the influence of kindness.

Governor Johnson was born in St. Clair County, Illinois, on the 18th of January, 1836. His natural tastes early inclined him to the study of the law, and he was admitted to the bar at St. Louis in 1857.

His official career forms a part of the history of the State which he has so well served; it does not call for extended narration in a work of this character. But one remark need be made in passing—that as his private character has been without blemish, so is his public record unassailable. It may not be out of place, however, to call attention to the fact that it was through his unshaken firmness and unswerving fidelity to the law which he had sworn to uphold that gambling was finally successfully suppressed in St. Louis. In vain had every agency been employed before to accomplish the same result. The pulpit had thundered denunciation; the press had lifted up its voice against the evil; fleeced victims had complained to the police, who had in turn periodically raided the gambling dens with sledge hammers and batons; yet all efforts had proven futile until the arrival of Governor Johnson upon the scene. In him the gamblers recognized a foe of keen intellect, sterling integrity and iron will, a man to be neither deceived, cajoled, bought nor bullied.

In person Governor Johnson is spare, but well proportioned. His countenance is grave, yet benignant; thoughtful, but unclouded, indicating a mind well stored through deep research and capable of grasping at once the most profound problems, and the most intricate details. Nor does the face belie its promise. To comprehensive sagacity he joins unfailing accuracy, and to a subtle faculty of discrimination he unites a well-nigh inexhaustible fertility of expedient. Add to this rare combination of qualities in their highest form of development an almost incredible power of long-sustainedlong-sustained application, and you have an ideal lawyer, and it is only as a lawyer that he will be considered in these pages.

Either from natural predilection, or through force of circumstances, Governor Johnson’s most pronounced professional successes have been attained as a criminal practitioner. To sway a jury is his forte and his delight, and in the accomplishment of this end he well knows how to employ the keen shafts of polished sarcasm, the scathing denunciation of fiery invective, the cold logic of convincing argument, and the impassioned appeal to tender sympathy. It has been well and truly said of him that jurors enter the box as strangers to him, but leave it with a sentiment of respect akin to regard. He has learned how to reach and touch the secret springs of the human heart, and need acknowledge no master in originality, tact or delicacy of touch, before which tears succeed mirth, and in turn yield to indignation.

His practice in the criminal courts has pitted him against such brilliant luminaries of the legal firmament as Uriel Wright (deceased), Senator George G. Vest, William Wallace, Judge Henry D. Laughlin, and Joseph G. Lodge (deceased), with a number of others equally as prominent in Missouri; Ex-Governor Palmer and William O’Brien, of Illinois; Ex-GovernorEx-Governor Jenkins, of Colorado; besides a long array of other eminent men. Before all these he has poised his lance like a true knight, nor can it be said of him that any of them have laid him low.

But distinguished as he is as an advocate before a jury, he has attained no less distinction as an examiner of witnesses. No fixedness of feature, no previous drilling in a cunningly-devised tale can hide the truth from his trained and watchful eye, which reads the secrets of the witnesses’ soul as though it were an open page.

Among the multitude of cases whose successful conduct has made him famous, a want of space forbids a mention of but a few.

One of his most noteworthy triumphs was obtained in the trial of the train-wreckers at Paola and Wyandotte in Kansas, when he and associates defeated the array of legal talent opposed to him by the trusted lieutenants of Jay Gould.

Another was his triumphant vindication of Fotheringham, the alleged dishonest messenger of the American Express Co., whose character he exonerated and for whom he secured the substantial damages of $20,000.

Another was in the successful defence at Gallatin, Mo., of the celebrated Frank James.

But what has always seemed to me to have been his crowning professional success was attained in the trial of Michael Horner, charged with murder in the first degree for the killing of Boswell, at Mt. Vernon, Lawrence Co., Mo. Both the accused and his victim had been farmers of Lawrence Co. for about five years before the commencement of the feud between them, which had its origin in a charge brought by Boswell against Horner (and denied by the latter) of seduction of the former’s sister. A succession of personal encounters ensued, but the combatants were always separated by mutual friends. At length, on July 18, 1885, Boswell, while at work in his field, saw Horner riding down the lane. Leaving his reaper and climbing the fence, he began a vigorous bombardment of his old enemy with fragments of rock. Horner, without dismounting, drew his revolver and emptied the contents of three chambers into the body of Boswell, who fell lifeless to the ground. In due time the slayer was arraigned, tried, found guilty of murder, and sentenced to confinement in the penitentiary for ninety-nine years. A second trial was granted, and occupied two weeks, 300 witnesses being summoned. The excitement throughout the country was intense, and the court-room was daily crowded by ardent sympathizers with either side. But Charles P. Johnson was for the defence, and so ably did he conduct and plead the cause of his client that the jury, after brief deliberation, returned a verdict of manslaughter in the fourth degree, and the penalty was fixed at a fine of $600. The scene which followed the reading of the verdict would need the pencil of a Hogarth to portray. Horner—who, despite all the efforts of his friends to secure his release on bail, had lain in jail since the killing—remained for a moment motionless through agitation; then jumping three feet into the air and wildly gesticulating, he shouted the Southern warhoop (known in the North as the “rebel yell”), which was taken up and repeated again and again by the vast crowd which packed the chamber to overflowing. In a delirium of joy, his young wife, hastily entrusting her baby to the nearest pair of arms, sprang toward the jury, whom she hugged and kissed by turns. Then both she and her husband mounted to the bench and grasped the judge by either hand, which they shook as vehemently as though they had been veritable pump-handles. In vain did the sheriff seek to restore order, but he was finally compelled to suffer the wild enthusiasm to find its vent. Horner was overwhelmed with congratulations, in which joined both friends and former foes. And in the midst of the wild confusion—in it, but not of it—stood the great advocate, whose genius, labor and eloquence had rendered such a result possible.

It may be that the reader will think that the author has been too lavish in his encomiums of this truly great man. Possibly so; yet the praise proceeds from the love of a grateful heart. Were I to find myself in the antipodes, and involved in difficulties calling for the aid of sound legal advice, the one man of all others to whom I would apply, and whose services, did my means permit, I should certainly retain, is Charles P. Johnson.

The reasons for my preference are easily explained. Governor Johnson, unlike many other lawyers who have attained prominence as practitioners in the criminal courts, does not desert his clients after he has secured their acquittal. To me he has proved a friend in need and in deed at the darkest hours of my life. He knows my character thoroughly; he has defended me more than once; and that I have not fallen into graver crimes than those which I now confess with shame, is due to his wise, fatherly counsels, and to the fact that he first implanted in my breast the desire to reform my life.

Nor is my case a solitary instance. His great brain is no less quick to conceive than is his great heart to execute. His quiet charity is as unostentatious as it is far reaching and comprehensive, and the number of those who owe their reformation to his patient, untiring efforts, will be known only when the secrets of all hearts are revealed.

Despite the fact that there is upon the statute books of New York a stringent law against gaming, the great American metropolis has been called—and not unjustly—the very paradise of gamblers. It is said, by carping critics, that there is scarcely a street without its gambling resort, all private, of course, yet the location of which is well known to those who indulge in that excitement.

The favorite game—as all over the North American continent—is faro, and the stakes vary according to the class to which the house belongs in which the game is played. In some of the lowest hells a stake of five cents is not despised. These houses are frequented by the poorest working men, discharged soldiers, broken down gamblers and street boys. In this connection it may be said, that of all the street boys in the world perhaps those of New York are most precocious. It is no uncommon sight to see a shoe-black, scarcely three feet high, walk up to the table or “bank,” as it is euphoniously termed, and stake a nickel with the air of a young spendthrift to “whom money is no object.”

At any of the later hours of the night, in any one of the cheap eating houses which abound in or near Broadway, from Spring Street north to Tenth Street, can be found one or more shabby-genteel men who bear unmistakable evidence in their speech, manner and appearance, of long continued, and generally disastrous, “fighting with the tiger.” These are the canaille of gamblers, who hang precariously on the edge of a terrible fascination, and manage to supply the necessities of life in a cheap way, from chance success in small bets and by a few dollars picked up by guiding more profitable customers to the houses where they are known. Strictly speaking, there are more “cappers” than gamblers. They are not only at the bottom of the “profession,” but their right to the proud (?) title of “sporting men” is stoutly denied by their more prosperous and reputable brethren of the green cloth. Improvident, uncertain in habits and language, unscrupulous, they are the natural products of sporting life, but which the faro banks nevertheless strive, although in vain, to shake off. Every house has several of these forlorn attaches, who play when they have money, and introduce a desirable stranger when they can; who are constant in their attendance upon the banquets that are daily spread in these houses, but are thus obliged to take the chances as to lodgings, and raiment. When they have worn threadbare the hospitality of the gaming house-keeper (as sometimes happens), they subsist—God and themselves alone know how.

Very different in most respects is another class of gamblers who can be seen any fine afternoon decorating Broadway with the splendor of their apparel, for, as a rule, the sporting fraternity is unexcelled in elegance of attire. If you meet in Broadway a man who lounges listlessly onward as though he had no well-defined object in life, and whose garments are cut in the latest style and of the finest material, you may wager he is a gambler in good luck, provided his silk hat is in the highest possible state of polish and his watch chain unusually massive. Very elegant in appearance, very quiet and gentlemanly in their demeanor, are these professional sports of the better class at all times and in all places. Gamblers of this type are usually men of intelligence far above the average, and among the hundreds of men eminent in science, literature and art who flock to the high-toned hells of New York, it is no easy task to find greater brilliancy of wit, higher polish of deportment, or more geniality of manner than are exhibited by the dealers at first-class metropolitan gaming-houses.

In the Bowery and on the side streets, may be met professionals of a very different class; brazen-faced men, with bristly mustaches and hair closely cropped like a convict, with apparel obtrusively gaudy and loaded with jewelry apparently of gold and precious stones. These are men to be avoided as the sharks which their appearance and their every act proclaim them to be. They are proprietors of, or “steerers” for the third-rate dens, where a “square” game is never played, even by accident. Should faro fail to return a profit, these fellows are ready to try anything else, from a game of poker down to outright robbery, as a means of obtaining money. Honest labor they abhor and despise. Any man, they say, can make a living by work, but it requires a smart man to get it without. They cherish a deep and abiding conviction of their own shrewdness; and their egregious conceit sometimes leads them to attempt some one of the confidence games in which “skinners” are adepts, in the perpetration of which they usually ingloriously come to grief through their native clumsiness. When they have no small dens of their own, their chief occupation and main reliance is as “ropers in,” and in view of their uncouth, repulsive appearance and address it is surprising that they are as successful as they are in enticing strangers into the wretched holes where they can be fleeced.

These strangers, thus inveigled, come under the name of “occasional players,” and are the vivification of all gambling, whether guided by the better class of ropers into gilded resorts, or by these vampires into the lower cribs. So long as one sporting man wins from or loses to another, no harm is done to the community at large, but no good is done the gamblers. It is the “occasional players” who furnish the means to replenish the faro banks, without which, they would soon be empty; the strangers who play not more than two or three times in their lives are the meat upon which these harpies fatten. It is not singular, that the novice is so apt to try his luck when he has once been induced to enter the gambling house. The universal game is faro; and looks so simple, so safe, so entirely fair, that the chances appear rather in favor of, than against the outside player.

It is made yet more alluring by its surroundings. Nowhere has sumptuous elegance been attained in such perfection as in the first-class gambling saloons of New York. Generally each has a suite of rooms, the largest of which is devoted to faro, with perhaps a roulette wheel in one corner, while others are sacred to short card games, and one is always exclusively used as a banqueting hall. All are furnished without regard to cost, but there is never anything in any of them to offend the most fastidious taste, although there may be sometimes a grim humor in some of the decorations, as is the case in one house where a magnificent oil painting of a tiger is suspended from the wall immediately over the table, so that none of the players can look up without meeting the glaring eye of the beast, which is held to be the presiding deity of the game. But such suggestions as this are very rare, as in general there is nothing anywhere but the faro table to declare the uses of the place. Take that away, and the visitor would imagine himself in the private parlors of a gentleman whose great wealth was fortunately equaled by his refined taste. This delusion would be strengthened by a seat at the banquet, where the viands are of all possible varieties, and the best quality, and are served with a finished elegance in the plate and all table appointments, including the waiters, which are not exceeded even in the most select private houses. At the table and on the sideboard in the saloon are liquors of excellent quality, which, although freely offered, are never pressed upon the visitor, and it is possible for a man to frequent these resorts for years without acquiring a taste for liquor. There is, in fact, very little drinking in them, and none at all of that fast and furious potation which hurries so many thousands of Americans to physical, mental and moral ruin. No sight is rarer in a first-class gaming house than to see a man maudlin drunk. An intoxicated man is never allowed to profane the place. If he appears in the person of a valuable patron, he is quietly led away, to be put to bed in some remote room; but if he comes as an unknown casual he is put into the street with little ceremony but without violence.

These statements, however, apply, of course, only to the first-class and most prosperous establishments. The places next in order ape them in everything, but are far below them in all. A second-class house has sometimes even more of glitter than its rival, but it is easy to see that it is pinchbeck grandeur. There is an absence, too, of the refined taste which presides over the decoration and furnishing of the better house. These rooms are glaringly painted, filled with odds and ends of furniture of all ages and patterns, so that they look not unlike the wards of a hospital for superannuated and diseased household goods turned over in their old age to the auctioneer’s hammer. The suppers and liquors, however, most plainly proclaim the lower caste of the place. While the variety of both is abundant, the first are execrably cooked and served, and the quality of the latter would not be strange to the most experienced patron of the ordinary Bowery saloons, which are proverbial for furnishing every kind of beverage except good.

But if the second grade houses are bad in these respects, there are some below them which are much worse. If a man can digest the so called “game suppers,” and survive any considerable drinking of the liquids which are offered as pure whiskey and brandy in the lowest classes of faro houses, he ought to be able to insure his life on the most favorable terms, and the appointments of these houses are in keeping with their entertainment. The chairs, sofas and carpets were of the most tawdry description when new, but are ragged with long and ill usage; the gambling checks, which range in price from twenty-five cents to one dollar, are grimed and dented with much handling; the faro table, elsewhere enticing with its newness and cleanliness, here is old and smeared with grease; the dealing-box, which in first-class houses is of pure and polished silver, here is of pewter, and dingy. So are all the minutiae of these places. They are repulsively suggestive of squalid and unprosperous vice; and if by any chance a gentleman enters, he leaves at once, to lose his money under more elegant, or at least cleaner, auspices.

Faro houses in New York have rarely exceeded one hundred in number, except during the latter part of the war, when speculation, going mad in Wall street, stalked over the land, demoralizing and ruining thousands. In those feverish times faro-playing naturally increased with stock gambling, and the faro houses multiplied until they fluctuated between one hundred and twenty and one hundred and thirty in number. Of late years, however, they have decreased, and a few years ago, when public excitement on the subject had given rise to the sensational statement that the city contained six hundred of them, ninety-two was the largest number that could be found open at any time. The number seems small in comparison to the size of the city, which, beside the large resident reckless population, contains tens of thousands of strangers, anxious not to miss any of the sensations of the metropolis. Yet these faro banks not only are enough to do all the business presented and enticed to them, but some of them have a very precarious life owing to the lack of custom. The first and second-class houses are under very heavy expenses, a principal item of which takes the shape of rent. They must be and are located in the principal thoroughfares near the leading hotels, with the exception of those anomalous institutions known as “day games,” which are found in Ann, Fulton, and Chambers streets, for accommodation of the business men, many of whom have acquired the bad habit of seeking solace for the vexations of legitimate transactions in the delights of faro. A seizure was made of these places lately, upon the ground that they are of all the gambling establishments in the city the most dangerous to the public. It is not necessary to endorse this statement in order to justify the attempt to suppress day gambling, but if activity in this direction is intended to excuse the toleration of all other houses, it will result in more of evil than good. The night houses, into which strangers are inveigled and robbed, are the resorts of young men of fortune, who here take the first step on a downward road which leads them and their families to shame and ruin, are worthy of at least equal attention. Beside being more frequented, these night houses have a much greater number of hours for play. The day houses are in full operation four or five hours per day, but in the night houses a game can be had in the afternoon and at any hour at night, while the average of play, take them altogether, is fully eighteen hours of each twenty-four. In the absorption and waste of capital, the half-score of day houses cannot be compared to those where most of the play is at night.

It is well-nigh impossible to get accurate statistics upon this point, and resort must therefore be had to approximate figures, which are, however, very near the exact truth. The faro banks of New York have as capital a little less than one million dollars, which is very unequally divided, as the ninety-two houses vary from $2,000 to $50,000 each, although only three or four have the latter amount, and the average banking capital is about $10,000. It is impossible to say what amount of money changes hands upon this basis. It is asserted that the average yearly winnings of all the banks taken together is about fifty per cent. over and above the expenditure required to keep up the establishments, so that every year these gamblers absorb about $500,000, while the gross profits are more than 100 per cent. These figures are conclusive that the way of the transgressor, if he be an occasional player rather than a dealer, is hard.

“Bunko Land,” on Broadway, of a fair summer evening, extends from Twenty-third to Thirty-third street. Here, meandering softly along in the twilight, or boldly facing the glare of the electric lamps, New York’s gamblers are to be seen in mid-summer and mid-winter alike. They know well enough who their friends in authority are. They are fully convinced that charges against McLaughlin and Carpenter, like charges against Williams—which have been so often and so unsuccessfully made—are not likely to come to anything as long as their friends are on deck. And that means, of course, just as long as the gamblers’ weekly stipend is forthcoming.

Until the furor over the raids on Nos. 86 Fulton street and 15 Ann street shall have faded out, as all the anti-gambling furors do, it will no doubt continue to be true that “gambling has stopped in New York.” That for the public. Of course, gambling never stops; it is only a little harder now to find a “game,” and a little harder to get into it after it is found. A couple of years ago all gambling was stopped in New York—officially—for eighteen months. John Daly moved from his familiar stand, No. 39 West Twenty-ninth street, to a private house on Forty-second street, and only admitted his “true friends,” and such of the public as could produce at the door, cards of invitation. There was a similar and general shifting of quarters and barring of doors in Ann street, Fulton, Barclay, Fourteenth streets, and at the famous old 818 Broadway, which goes on forever, apparently, however raids come and go. That sudden revolution in the habits and habitats of Gotham’s “sports” was due, just as their present stringency of circumstances is due, to a raid from authorities other than those locally in charge of the precincts where the gambling houses are situated.

All raids, to be in any degree effectual, must be made either directly from Police Headquarters, or by Comstock’s or Whitney’s men. This bold assertion is not made—everybody knows it is true—for the purpose of warranting inferences as to the integrity of the officers immediately in charge of the district where the games are in progress, but because it states an undeniable fact. Inferences are easy. This is one of the few readily accessible facts about gambling.