The Virginian

FOR THE VIRGINIAN.
THE MISCELLANY—NO. VII.
"A vice which drags all others in its train."
Anon.

There is no vice deserving of more frequent or severe reprehension than that of gaming. It tends, when practised to excess, to sever the bonds, implanted in our breasts by the all-wise Architect who spoke creation from chaos, intended to link man to his fellow; and it makes us callous and unfeeling. It often shadows the pathway of its victims; and some, whom I have known, whose prospects needed not the gildings of imagination to make them a source of comfort to themselves, & of envy to others, have been hurled swiftly from the competence and splendor of which they were masters, to a state of indescribable penury & wretchedness.
I once knew a man, who, step by step, descended from an elevated rank in life, to the lowest depths of infamy; and who traced his degradation and his ruin to this cause. He was in early life, the pride of his parents, and joy of his friends. No peculiarity, either of intellect or action, distinguished his juvenile years from those of other boys—But, his amiable qualities, as he advanced in age, became matured, and, together with talents of no mean grade, made him in every company a welcome guest. His parents were wealthy, and he was their only child. No wonder, that with such prospects before him, he gave reins to his imagination, & pictured to himself scenes of future happiness; which, alas! were only to be partially realized! No wonder that his spirit was light and careless! That buoyed up by hopes of future distinction to himself and of usefulness to his fellow-men, he sailed down the stream of time without perceiving the breakers ahead, on which his bark was destined to rush, and, tumbling to pieces, plunge him into a vortex of irretrievable ruin! He had, all his days, floated over a smooth sea—he saw a wide expanse before him to all appearance as gentle as that whose bosom he had already traversed—but he saw not (for why should men render themselves miserable by anticipating evil?) the shoals on which his hopes & prospects, bright and glowing as they were, were destined to be stranded!
Young Ashley was as happy as a man can be in this world. He was wealthy, and he appropriated his wealth to its legitimate use, the amelioration of human wretchedness—He was esteemed by his acquaintance, and he had that within his bosom which told him that he was not undeserving of their esteem. He was blessed with affectionate parents, and he was conscious that their affection was not misplaced. And, to crown what seemed the summit of earthly bliss, the girl to whom he had been long ardently attached, had blessed him with her heart and hand; and two smiling cherubs, a girl and boy, were the pledges of their mutual love. He lived many years in the enjoyment of every bliss afforded by the married state, when the characters of those who are united together are assimilated by sameness of views and opinions. Such was the case with Ashley and his Maria. He had espoused her when both were young. The down of youth had scarcely begun to bristle into manhood, when the spark which had mutually existed in the bosoms of the lovely pair, broke forth into a flame, and knitted them together in bonds as durable as time. Years had passed on in uninterrupted happiness—they loved with as holy and a endearing a passion when they had lived long together, and knew well each the foibles of the other (for none are wholly free from them,) as when, restricted by the rules of life to a more limited intercourse, they had longed for the moment, which should, by making them one, break down this barrier, and "hope be lost in fruition." Yet, how fleeting is bliss! and how unsubstantial are all the plans formed for its perpetuation! To-day, the sun shines forth with brilliancy, and enlivens every object which comes within the sphere of its influence!—We exult in the anticipations of futurity.—We look forward, and behold a sky unclouded and serene.—Not a speck obscures the horizon—not a murmur gives notice of an approaching storm. Our hearts are gladdened, and we rejoice at the feelings which we entertain that such will always be the case—that the same sun which lights us to happiness to-day, will continue to be the pioneer of our hopes forever. To-morrow comes, and how is the scene changed!—Clouds rest upon the horizon which was lately without a spot; and casts a general gloom over all our prospects. Where are all our glowing anticipations now? Where the happiness which we had pictured?—Where the long life of uninterrupted joy which our too fond imagination had painted? Ask the winds! Like a bubble on the wave, they have melted into thin air—They have disappeared, like the passing meteor, dashing thro' the heavens, and "left no trace behind."—Oh, how heart-rending, to feel, that the last link in the chain of future joys which our enthusiastic minds had figured to themselves, is broken! That our last hope, to which we had fondly clung, as if it were our hope of heaven, is gone!—And yet, how few and feeble are the efforts which we make to preserve the happiness which fortune casts into our paths; and how disregardful are we of the means which a wise Providence, for the same beneficent purpose, has placed in our hands!
" 'Tis strange! 'tis passing strange!
" 'Tis wonderful! most wonderful!"
Blessed with wealth which he knew how to use—with friends, whom he loved, and who loved him—with parents, whose reputations were as pure from stain as the silver locks which wintry age had scattered on their brows—with a wife, who lived on his smiles, and who gave him life by her own—with children, lovely even as our fancies represent the son of Venus—and innocent as cherubs—what had he to wish for? What needed he to consummate his happiness? He wanted nothing—he wished for nothing. He was happy. The lark, whose lively carols, as it hops from bough to bough, gives pleasure to the lonely traveller in his solitude, was not more devoid of care. He arose in the morning—transacted, with a cheerful mind, the occupations of the day—and returned to his family with a heart throbbing with emotions of the purest delight. Anticipation lent her magic aid to reality, and he saw nothing before him but a gay parterre of flowers, in which no envious thorn protruded to sting the hand that plucked them. Such would have been the case, whilst he lived, had not one baneful passion lurked in his heart, and been called into exercise by an infatuation, as unaccountable in its nature as it is dangerous in its consequences. He had always been fond of games of chance: but had sedulously avoided risking large sums on the doubtful "hazard of the die." He would have continued to act thus prudently, had his business permitted him to remain with his family. But engaged largely in dealings with the southern merchants, he was called to C, and was detained on that place for several months. Whilst there, the attractions of home were of course lost: and he became acquainted with a nest of sharpers; who, by degrees, induced him to forego his caution, and to enter largely into the pursuit of that precarious business which has wrecked the fortunes of many who would have been otherwise, ornaments of their country and pillars of the moral fabric on which the ark of her liberties rests. At first he won; but, at length, the superior skill, or the dishonesty of his antagonists. "turned the tables," and the little he had won, together with an immense sum besides, was lost, and he was only roused from his delirium to find himself robbed not only of the amount gained by his commercial speculations, but also of a large portion of his patrimony. He received news, about this time, that his aged father, had gone down to the grave.—At any other time, he, would have mourned deeply mourned! But now, strange as it may seem, the infatuated man actually rejoiced! He became, by his death, possessed of a large stock of ready money, in addition to the remainder of the estate which had descended through several successive generations, from father to son. He immediately drew on his correspondent for the ready money; and only left C---, when he had lost the whole of it. When he returned home, he was not known by his family, so much had dissipation and excessive anxiety of mind altered his appearance—His eyes, sunk deep in his head, had lost all their fire and animation—his cheeks, blanched and hollow, no longer retained the freshness of the rose, but burned with the hectic glow of disease. His affectionate wife hung around his neck; and his little children climbed upon his knees, as they had ever done; but the same affectionate caresses no longer soothed them in their anguish, nor made them gay in their more cheerful hours. Yet, notwithstanding this change, not more evident nor more painful to others than to himself, he continued to venture his frail bark on the tempestuous ocean which had well nigh swallowed up his health, his fortune and his happiness—As long as a dollar remained, or his credit could procure one, he risked it. At length every resource failed, and the proud fabric which had but lately reared its head to the skies, was seen to tumble to the dust, dragging in its fall, not only the hopes and the happiness of himself and his family; but depriving many a poor tradesman of the pittance earned in Ashley's days of prosperity, and which their confidence in his integrity as well as in his ability to pay, permitted him to retain in his hands. His wife had been kept in ignorance of the state of his concerns until things had proceeded to the last extremity; and she was only awakened to a sense of her real situation, by the imprisonment of her husband, and the sale of his effects. She was immediately taken home by her friends, but she did not long survive the stroke which had destroyed all her happiness. A few weeks illness, with which she was attacked a day or two after her removal, hurried her sainted spirit from its abode of clay, into the presence of the Being, who, having chastened her with his rod, held out, in her dying hour, his staff to support her, "thro' the dark valley and shadow of death."—Ashley lived several years after the decease of his wife—a vagabond and an outcast.—The last that was heard of him, was, that he had gone to sea—and it is supposed that he must have perished; as the ship in which he embarked was never heard of after she left port.
In the life and death of young Ashley, we have an admonitory lesson, to beware of excessive gaming. It is not a bugbear chimera, to frighten children: it is a sober and well-attested fact. Who has not seen some instance of it? Who has not seen the young man of talents and virtue suffer in the estimation of his fellow-men, and by degrees sink into the lowest depths of infamy and disgrace, by disregarding the voice of prudence, & launching into the excesses of this hateful practice? Who has not seen the blushing rose, tinged with the early radiance of the morning sun, evening withering beneath its scorching heat? Enviable indeed was the situation of Ashley—his happiness, to all appearance was stable—none could have better reason for anticipating its continuance—but, ere the meridian of his days, the spoiler came, and nipped it in the bud. And where is he? A curtain has been drawn over his fate—and who shall dare presumptuously to penetrate it? He has gone to the bar of the Supreme, to meet the accusing spirits of his wife and children, whom he deprived of earthly comfort; and of his aged parents, whom the Deity, in mercy, took to himself, before their "gray hairs were brought down in sorrow to the grave."

CIVILIS.