Yet outside this howling, seething, surging crowd, within hailing distance from the center of all this hubbub (were language audible at a distance of thirty feet), sits a row of men, some of them in the prime of life, some of them scarcely past its meridian, others wearing the silver crown of age. Cool, collected, seemingly dispassionate, they exchange conversation which appears to be humorous, to judge from the laughter which it provokes. To the casual observer, they seem to be in the “madding crowd,” but not of it. Yet one who carefully watches their movements may see that from time to time signals are exchanged between some one or other of them and some individual on the steps of the pit. These men, thus sitting apart, are the great operators, those who make prices, and whose every movement is watched, as possibly affording a clue to their intentions. Jealously, however, do they guard their secrets; impassable are their countenances, and imperturbable their demeanor. With the seemingly stolid indifference of the veteran gamester, who sees his last dollar swept from the table by the turn of a card and gives no sign of regret, these men calmly witness the wiping out of a fortune by a rise or fall in prices, and manifest not the slightest indication of emotion.

To the visitor sitting aloft the spectacle is strange, bewildering, fascinating.

But let us descend to the floor, to enter upon which the stranger must obtain a card of admission. Here one passes men who have won largely, but whose countenances betray no symptom of exultation, and others whose losses have been heavy, yet whose laughing faces and merry jests indicate no dissatisfaction either with the world or with life. The busy operators at the telegraph key-board are too much absorbed in their work to give heed to the Babel of confusion around them. Messenger boys scurry hither and thither, in anxious quest of men for whom they bear tidings, perhaps of grave consequence. Suspended from various points about the room are charts, tables and diagrams, relating to almost every conceivable subject, the report and forecast of the Signal Service office; the supply of cereals at every market in the civilized world; the movement of breadstuffs and provisions at home and abroad; the cargoes of steam-ships from American, European and East Indian ports; comparative statements of receipts and shipments; and one thousand and one other matters, a knowledge of which may be of interest to members. On the front of one of the long galleries are huge dials, whose index fingers record the fluctuations of prices in the pit. On days when speculation runs riot and excitement is more than usually rampant, these pointers sway to and fro with a rapidity of movement almost bewildering.

But before we have satisfied our curiosity, or sufficiently indulged our admiration of the completeness of the mechanism of the gigantic machine whose revolutions we have been contemplating, the striking of the great gong indicates that the active business for the day in one of the world’s greatest marts has closed. To one who has regarded the transactions with the indifference of a chance spectator, this sound means little more than the tolling of the bell, which in some high tower marks the hour. But on more than one listening ear upon the floor it falls like the knell of doom. To many a venturesome speculator who has unfortunately placed himself upon the wrong side of the market, it is ominous of a crisis in his affairs which must be promptly met if he is not to be overtaken by ruin, perhaps by disgrace. He must become a borrower, or be publicly posted as being unable to meet his contracts. Perhaps he has already overstrained his credit, and knows that his commercial paper must go to protest. Who can surmise all the varied feelings which the sound of that gong awakens in the breasts of not a few of those who hear it? Yet no sign of emotion is visible in the vast throng of brokers and their principals as they descend the broad marble staircase or hurry to the elevators. They laugh, smoke and chat as though they were returning from a merrymaking, rather than from a gathering where millions of money had been staked, and where, perchance, some of them had sold their honor for a mess of pottage.

The charter powers bestowed upon some of these commercial corporations is enormous, rivalling those conferred upon courts of law. Thus, the charter of the Chicago Board of Trade contains the following provision:

Section 7, after providing for the appointment of a “Committee of Reference and Arbitration,” and a “Committee on Appeals,” and fixing their jurisdiction, further provides that “the acting chairman of either of said committees, when sitting as arbitrators, may administer oaths to the parties and witnesses, and issue subpœnas and attachments compelling the attendance of witnesses, the same as justices of the peace, and in like manner directed to any constable to execute.”

Section 8 contains provisions of an equally extraordinary character. It reads as follows: “Whenever any submission shall have been made, in writing, and a final award shall have been rendered and no appeal taken within the time fixed by the Rules or By-Laws, then, on filing such award and submission with the Clerk of the Circuit Court, an execution may issue upon such award, as if it were a judgment rendered in the Circuit Court, and such award shall thenceforth have the force and effect of such a judgment, and shall be entered upon the judgment docket of said Court.”

The granting of such extra-judicial powers upon men who possess no special aptitude for their exercise is, to say the least, an anomaly in jurisprudence. That a court so constituted should naturally incline to the enforcement of agreements which are, in their essence, gambling contracts, is no more surprising than that juries of unbiased men should set them aside, or that courts, whose aim is to enforce the spirit as well as the letter of the law, should non-suit plaintiffs seeking relief under their provisions. Over and over again have courts and juries declined to regard a sale, the parties to which did not contemplate a bona fide delivery in any other light than as a bet or wager, the collection of which could not be legally enforced. It is a serious question whether an act clothing a loosely organized—if not self-constituted—tribunal with the powers of the highest court of original jurisdiction in a great commonwealth, is not a blot upon the judicial system of the State which sanctions it.

In what has been said, however, the author intends to draw no invidious distinction between the commercial exchanges of the country. As a rule, they occupy the same plane; and in respect of being a blessing or a curse to the country at large, they must stand or fall together. At the same time, the Board of Trade of the Western metropolis has seen fit to take a position which is, to say the least, somewhat anomalous. In the preamble to its “Rules and By-Laws” it declares that among its objects are: “to inculcate principles of justice and equity in trade * * * *” and “to acquire and disseminate valuable commercial and economic information.”

As regards the “principles of justice and equity in trade” which are “inculcated” by commercial exchanges generally, nothing more need be said. Were the transactions on their floors confined to actual sales at prices influenced only by legitimate means and natural causes, there can be little doubt that they would prove potent factors in the furtherance of commerce and advancements of its best interests. It is not in this aspect that the author is considering them. His reprehension of their practices is predicated upon the other, and broader, side of their character, i. e., their speculative side. It can scarcely be called an open question whether it “inculcates principles of justice and equity in trade” for one man to buy up all the wheat in sight (and out of sight too, for that matter) and then force an alleged buyer, but an actual rival whom he has done his best to mislead, to settle with him at a price exceeding by 100 to 150 per cent. the actual value of the commodity.

But it is the “object” last mentioned—the “dissemination of valuable commercial and economic information”—concerning which the exchange in question has taken such a peculiar position. Originally, the “information” at its command, whether “valuable” or otherwise, was “disseminated” with the automatic regularity of clock work. Whether this dissemination was undertaken for the benefit of the public at large, or from motives purely selfish is immaterial in this connection, although the “object” may be, perhaps, inferred from the course of the directors. It was found that places far less pretentious were being opened and were doing a thriving business. Within the shadow of the great tower sprang up an “Open Board,” which attracted speculators who might otherwise have conducted their operations through the channels opened by the more august body. Moreover “bucket shops” (the pernicious character of whose methods will be explained hereafter) multiplied and flourished. The quotations of the regular exchange were as the “vital air” to the smaller concerns. “Withdraw our quotations,” said the directors, “and all competition will come to naught.” A wrangle ensued, followed by litigation in the courts, resulting in the triumph of the more renowned body, the “genuine, old, original Jacobs.” In other words, the “dissemination“dissemination of valuable commercial and economic information,” came to an abrupt and untimely end, and one of the “objects” of the organization, announced to the world with gravity, parade and rhetorical flourish, failed of accomplishment.

And alas, too, for the sincerity and consistency of poor, weak human nature.

Some years since, the president of this same exchange, in congratulating the members upon belonging to the ideal institution of the world, went out of his way to stigmatize all the other exchanges of the country as “bucket shops,” justifying his assertion by the charge that the latter depended for quotations upon that over which he presided, a circumstance which, in his opinion, formed the essential nature of a “bucket shop.” In other words, if the “valuable commercial and economic information” as “disseminated” by one body were used by members of another similar organization, the latter were preying upon the public, setting snares for the unwary and fleecing the ignorant. It is difficult to conceive of any loftier height to which egotism could soar. Of what value are the charts and diagrams to which reference has been made except to “disseminate” among members of this particular exchange the “valuable commercial and economic information” gathered by a kindred organization?

Yet the self-stultification went even farther.farther. At the very moment when the chief executive of this board was indulging in these rhapsodical flights of rhetoric, a determined effort was being made to open, in connection with that institution, as a sort of “side-show,” a stock exchange, where speculation might be carried on for the benefit of brokers and others, which should be based upon “information disseminated by the New York Stock Exchange!” Could inconsistency farther go? To use quotations on grain and provisions is piratical; to take advantage of quotations on stocks derived from a market one thousand miles away is, in every sense, proper and legitimate!

This fact is not mentioned in derision of the particular organization in question, but as an illustration of the absolute selfishness, the unbridled greed for gain, and the instinctive spirit of gambling which form the salient features of the average American commercial exchange as it exists in the present year of grace. For its members, the world is divided into two classes—the exchange and the rest of mankind, the latter having been created for the aggrandizement and glorification of the former. If the dissemination of information result in the enrichment of the master spirits, and the garnering of a golden harvest of commissions by brokers, let the good work go forward; if the publication of private news, however untrustworthy, will, like an ignis fatuus, lead the unsuspecting still further into the morass of blind and reckless speculation, let the “valuable economic information” be scattered broadcast upon the four winds of Heaven. But palsied be the hand which, with unhallowed touch, would desecrate the ark in which is contained the sacred privilege of the members to monopolize the fictitious sale of breadstuffs and provisions, to absorb alike the fortunes of the rich and the earnings of the poor, who like foolish children, chase the rainbow, in the vain hope that at the foot of the arch, so gorgeous in its prismatic tints, they may find the fabled pot of gold.

Yet if the legitimate exchange presents features worthy of condemnation, what shall be said of those veritable plague spots upon the bodybody commercial, those festering cancers which eat into the very heart of socialsocial morals—the “bucket shops”?

These institutions are peculiar to American cities. The more phlegmatic temperament of the denizens of the old world does not lead him into the vagaries of the citizen of the “great Republic,” where wealth fixes caste, and gold is too often worshiped in the place of God. In the United States, more than in any other country, activity, mental as well as physical, is regarded as the chief end of man. In fact, a rocking chair under full swing, would be no inappropriate heraldic national emblem. It is true, as a German paper says of us, that we “chew more tobacco and burst more steam engines than any other nation on earth.” With us, life is restless, and we can find recreation only in excitement. It is this feature of our national character that inclines us to gaming and to speculation in a far higher degree than any other people. Could it be eliminated from our nature the “bucket shop,” like Othello, would find its occupation gone.

Yet the reader, the lines of whose quiet life are cast outside the whirl and turmoil of a great city, may not understand the signification of the term. A “bucket shop” is an establishment where those whose inclinations prompt them to speculate in stocks or produce, but the scantiness of whose means forbids their operating on an extensive scale, may gratify their tastes by risking (and losing) the few dollars which they can ill afford to spare. The epithet “bucket” is a term of derision, having been originally applied to such an institution to imply that a customer might buy or sell a “bucketful” of any commodity which he might select.

These concerns differ only in respect of size and appointment. They are all conducted on one and the same principle. The visitor, on entering, finds himself within a large room, sometimes handsomely, sometimes meanly furnished. Rows of chairs are arranged for the convenience of customers and chance-comers, facing a blackboard. The latter is the indispensible requisite, the sine qua non, without which the transaction of business would be practically impossible. In these chairs are seated men of every age and of nearly all grades of social distinction. Clerks, artisans, merchants and men about town mingle in a sort of temporary companionship, truly democratic. Beardless youths sit side by side with men whose heads have grown bald and whose step has become feeble in a vain chase after a phantom, a chimera, a will-of-the-wisp, always just within the grasp, yet ever eluding the clutch. Here may be met the confidential clerk, who sees nothing wrong in following, at a respectable distance, the example of his employer, who ventures his thousands upon the floor of ’Change. Here one jostles against the decrepit old man, once a millionaire, but who having sunk his fortune in the maelstrom of some great Board of Trade, now passes his waking hours before these blackboards, reckoning that a red-letter day upon which he wins five dollars. And here, too, may be encountered the successful business man, keen of eye, quick of step, alert of perception, who has been drawn hither partly through a desire for speedy wealth, partly through an inordinate craving for the excitement which is not to be found in the legitimate walks of trade. The eyes of all are turned toward the immense board on which, chalk in hand, some attache of the establishment momentarily records some change in quotations of stocks or grain, and which seems to have for them all the fascination of the candle for the moth.

Far different is the scene here presented from that witnessed on the floor of the great Exchange. There all was clamor and apparent confusion; here quiet and decorum reign supreme. The silence is unbroken, save by the sharp tick of the telegraphic instrument and the droning monotone of the blackboard marker. Yet there is one point of resemblance between the habitues of the “bucket shop,” the dealers upon ’Change and the patrons of the gaming hell; one and all, they win without displaying exultation and lose without manifesting regret. In the “bucket shops,” however, the attentive observer may sometimes hear the heavy sigh of dispair from the young man who has been tempted to risk his employer’s money, as he perceives the last dollar of his margin swept away by an unlucky turn of prices; or witness a senile smile of satisfaction momentarily gleam upon the face of the feeble old man who sees himself about to be provided with the means of keeping soul and body together for another day. O, wretched picture of sordid greed, of fallacious hopes, of blank despair! O, sad illustration of the sadder truth that in the contact for the mastery of the heart of man, the evil too often outstrips the good!

But let us examine into the business methods of the proprietors of these resorts where gambling is made easy, and ruin is placed within reach of the humblest. As an illustration, let us suppose that the customer wishes to speculate in some stock, say Missouri, Kansas and Texas. The blackboard shows the fluctuations in quotations as they occur on the New York Stock Exchange. The margin which he is called upon to advance, is one dollar per share, and he may limit his transactions to five shares, if he sees fit. It is a matter of indifference to the proprietor whether he elects to buy or sell; that obliging individual will accommodate himself to his wishes, whatever they may be. Suppose that he buys five shares of the stock in question, at a moment when it is quoted at 16¼. If it rises to 17¼, he may, if he chooses, close his deal, receiving back the five dollars which he advanced as margin, together with another five dollars, the latter representing his profit. If, on the other hand, it drops to 15¼, he loses his margin. It is easy to see that such a transaction as this is nothing but a bet, pure and simple.

The illustration given above is drawn from the smallest description of business done. Yet, as has been said, these dens of iniquity are patronized by the wealthy merchant, as well as by the poor mechanic and clerk. It is on the poorer class of customers that the proprietors depend for their steady income; it is from the wealthier customers that they obtain sums of money which they denominate “plums.”

The manner in which such traders are fleeced by the unscrupulous scoundrels who conduct these institutions may be illustrated as follows: One of them will inform a confiding patron that he has received information from a source which he regards as trustworthy, that some inactive stock—perhaps Denver & Rio Grande—then selling at 9, is about to rise. At his suggestion his customer purchases, let us say, 15,000 shares on a margin of one dollar per share. This done, the proprietor of the “bucket shop” telegraphs to a broker to “sell 3,000 D. & R. G.—quick, quick,” in blocks from 8¾ to 8. The broker who receives the dispatch, either alone or with assistance, offers the stock; the offer is promptly accepted by another broker, to whom the wily manager has telegraphed instructions to buy the stock at the price named. The final quotation, 8, fixes the price, and the sale is promptly reported to the bucket shop by telegraph. The result is that the too trustful customer’s $15,000 advanced as margin, is swept into the coffers of the daring rascal who has perpetrated the fraud, and whose only outlay is the payment of one-fourth of a cent commission on the fictitious sale and purchase.

Let us take another illustration, drawn from a suppositious transaction in wheat. The speculator perceives from the quotations on the blackboard that some future delivery of wheat opened at 86⅛. Every minute or two new quotations are shown on the board, the apparent tendency of the market being upward. He also sees that during the preceding hour the price has been as high as 86⅝, and as low as 86. When it touches 86 again he concludes to buy, guessing that it is likely to rise. Accordingly he purchases 1,000 bushels at that price, advancing ten dollars as a margin. Perhaps the next change is an advance to 86⅛. He might now sell out without loss, as the ⅛ in his favor amounts to exactly the commission charged by the shop. The next quotation is, say 86, and the following one 85⅞. If it should continue to fall until 85⅛ is touched, he is said to be “frozen out,” inasmuch as the decline of ⅞ added to the ⅛ brokerage charged by the proprietor, equals the ten dollars which he has advanced. Perhaps he concludes to “re-margin,” in which case he will put up ten dollars more. Possibly the market may now take an upward turn and rise until 86⅛ is again reached. It is now within his power to close the transaction without loss other than that involved in the payment of the commissions. Let us suppose that he does so. It is quite probable that it will now occur to him that the market is likely again to recede, and he accordingly sells 1,000 bushels at 86⅛, once more advancing ten dollars as a margin. If the price continues to rise until 87 is reached, our venturesome speculator is again frozen out, and is ten dollars lighter in pocket.

The above supposed cases are fair illustrations of the average bucket shop trading. A majority of the patrons of these establishments are “scalpers,” satisfied if they can win five, ten, or twenty dollars, and close observers say that fully seven out of ten guess the market wrong. The shop always makes its regular commission, no matter what may be the result of the transaction. “Puts,” “calls” and “straddles” are also sold at these places, although, of course on a far smaller scale than by members of the regular exchanges.

But bucket shops have other and darker sides. It is by no means uncommon for a manager so to manipulate quotations as to wipe out speculators margins at his own pleasure. Thus, if it is for his interest that a certain stock or commodity should decline, the quotations which he posts upon his blackboard show a fall, without reference to the actual course of the market at the regular exchanges.

Another, and favorite, device of the gentry, by which large sums are often realized, is to “fail.” A considerable amount of money—say $50,000 or $60,000—having been received as margins, and being carried by the house, a plan is formed by which it may be absorbed by the proprietor with but little chance of detection. In order to accomplish this he has resort to the aid of some reputable (?) firm of brokers, who are members in good standing, of some regular exchange. He arranges with them to enter in their books, records of fictitious transactions with him of such a character and to such an amount that he may appear to have lost the money in speculating, for the benefit of his customers, upon ’Change. The obliging firm of brokers receive, for rendering this valuable service, the regular commission of one-eighth of one cent per bushel upon the transactions thus fraudulently entered. It is, in itself, a striking commentary upon the methods and morals of the average commercial exchange of the last quarter of the nineteenth century, that brokers can be found, who, while claiming to be upright, honorable business men, are willing, for so paltry a consideration to outrage integrity, and drag honor in the dust.

Apropos of bucket shops, however, it may be cited as a singular commentary on the sincerity of the instituted condemnation heaped upon them by the Western exchange which resolved to cease its dissemination of “valuable commercial and economic information,” that the same organization has recently adopted a rule reducing the limit of bushels of grain which may be bought and sold upon the floor to one thousand bushels. It would be uncharitable to suppose that the institution in question intended to enter into rivalry with the bucket shops; yet had that been its intention it could scarcely have devised a scheme better calculated to bring about such a result. Men, the scantiness of whose means had forbidden their speculating on the regular exchange, may now gratify their inclinations upon the “floor” with almost the same ease as before the huge blackboard in the bucket shop.

Nor should it be forgotten that there is an aspect in which the great commercial exchanges work more harm to the community at large than do the less reputable concerns which follow at a respectable distance in their wake. A sale or purchase of a large “block” of grain or provisions upon the floor of a regular exchange affects the price of the commodity in every retail market throughout the country, thus working a direct injury to the consumer, who finds himself unable to judge, from one day to another, what will be the cost on the morrow, of the necessaries of life. A transaction involving precisely the same quantity of the same commodity in a bucket shop works no such result. It is the “operators,” whose selfish greed brings about the fluctuations which work such hardships to the poor.

Such is the commercial exchange of to-day, and such the fungus-like excrescenceexcrescence which is its off-shoot. Call these practices which have been here described by what name you will, plain, unvarnished truth stamps them as gambling on a gigantic scale and in one of its deadliest forms. And yet the State holds over them the protecting ægis of the law, and the community at large gives them the moral support of its approving smile. For the avowed professional gambler there is no place in the political edifice. In the eye of society he is a pariah; in that of the law a culprit; in that of the church a moral leper. Yet the heartless operator who deliberates long and earnestly how he may most speedily and surely accomplish the ruin of the man for whom he professes the sincerest friendship; for the selfish speculator who passes toilsome days and sleepless nights in devising schemes for forcing up the price of the necessaries of life; for the far-seeing scoundrel who concocts a cunningly devised scheme for wrecking a railroad in whose stock, it may be, are invested the funds on which the widow and the orphan depend for subsistence—for these men, society has no condemnation, the law no terrors, and the pulpit no denunciation. They build churches and found colleges; they preside at public gatherings and occupy posts of honor upon public committees. It is a trite aphorism that “nothing succeeds like success,” and no more apt illustration of its truth could be given than the adulation bestowed upon men whose fortunes have been cemented by the groans of the unfortunate, and the tears of the widow. Of a truth it is time that society placed the seal of its disapproval upon gambling openly conducted in marble palaces as emphatically as upon the same vice carried on behind darkened windows and barred doors. In this, as in every other great moral reform, much depends upon the attitude and influence of the clergy, who, as a body, have hitherto kept silent as to the crying evil spread out before them.

The idea of the inception of the exchange was grand in its scope. Such organizations have a lofty mission, and it is within their power to encourage commerce, to promote honesty in trade, and to advance the best interests of the State. When an enlightened public sentiment shall compel the elimination from them of those baleful features which have been here portrayed, when the pure gold of legitimate traffic shall have been separated from the dross of illegitimate speculation, when the revival of a healthful moral tone shall have averted the danger which now menaces us, that through the influence and example of the exchange we shall become a nation of gamblers, then no longer shall phantoms haunt the imagination and fallacies pervert the judgment of men; but there shall rise upon the eye of the world the lineaments of a republic far transcending the loftiest conceptions of Plato; a republic of which poets have dreamed and which prophets have foreshadowed; the flowerage of centuries; the bloom and perfume of a Christian civilization.

An offshoot of the mania for gambling in stocks—yet one which is chargeable rather to the bucket shop than to the regular exchange—is known as the “clock.” Of all the multitudinous devices by which swindlers deceive dupes, this is, perhaps the most inherently and transparently absurd. I have fastened its parentage upon the bucket shop for the reason that it is undoubtedly the offspring of the fertile brain of some proprietor of one of these establishments, where rascals grow rich on the gullibility of fools.

The “clock” is a gambling device which can be likened to nothing so aptly as to a “brace” faro box. Both contain cards; in both these, cards are arranged according to the will of the manipulator; in both, the proprietor, or dealer, or other person operating the implement, can determine with tolerable accuracy, whether it is wisest to permit the victim to win or lose.

Yet there are minor points of difference. In the faro box the cards are drawn out through a slit; in the clock they are exposed to view by pulling a string which allows them to fall at the operator’s will. At faro, ordinary playing cards are used; in the case of the clock the cards employed contain the names of stocks—sometimes actual and sometimes fictitious—together with figures which purport to represent values of the stocks named, but which, as a matter of fact, sustain no more intimate relations to actual market quotations than would a map of China to the topography of the moon. The reader who will peruse the description given below will, if he has already had the patience to familiarize himself with the explanation of frauds at faro, recognize the fairness of the comparison above drawn.

The gambling “clock” consists of two parts: a contrivance in which the cards are kept and from which they are dropped, and a sort of dial in which they are exhibited to the interested gaze of the players. Its mechanism appears to be a triumph of the simplicity of invention. The operator sits either directly in front or at some convenient point where he may see the inscriptions on the cards as they fall. From time to time he pulls a string; the card exposed disappears from sight and is replaced by another.

The method of “speculating” (or, as it might more properly be called, betting) is as follows: The player notes the course of some stock—perhaps one called “Jem Dandy”—observing its “rise” or “fall,” as shown by the figures on the cards, and possibly keeping a record of its ostensible “fluctuations,” very much as a faro player records the issuance of cards from the dealing box. Perhaps one of them concludes that some particular “stock” having fallen, as shown by the cards during three or four consecutive exposures, he imagines that the chances are in favor of the next card of the same stock showing an “advance.” Accordingly, he concludes to back his judgment with his money. He does not bet directly, as a faro gamester, for instance, might place a stack of chips upon a queen. He “purchases” a certain number of “shares” of the “stock” in question, advancing the amount which he is willing to risk as a “margin,” precisely as he would were he buying stocks or grain in a bucket shop. His fate is sealed by the appearance of the next card inscribed with the same suit. If “Jem Dandy,” or whatever other stock he may have bought, “goes up” he wins; if it “falls” he loses.

The reader will have no difficulty in perceiving that, as has been intimated, the pretended “sale” was in reality no sale at all, the entire transaction being a wager, pure and simple, on the turn of a particular card. Nor is it difficult to comprehend that a professional gambler can manipulate pre-arranged cards by pulling a string as easily as by using his thumb and forefinger.

The rooms where the “clock” is used are not infrequently infested by confidence men of a peculiar sort. The verdant visitor who appears to be a “soft mark” is often approached by men who tell him that their “wives” are clairvoyants, or trance mediums, who can predict with infallible accuracy, the order in which these cards will leave the receptacle on the ensuing day. For a small consideration—e. g., five dollars—they will impart to him information through the possession of which he may certainly win hundreds, if not thousands. These persons, however, never explain why they should prefer to sacrifice, for such a paltry sum, the knowledge which would enable themselves to accumulate fortunes with a celerity which would cast completely into the shade the rapid mathematical computations of the “lightning calculator.”

It occasionally happens, however, that the proprietor of one of these “clocks” comes to grief through the wiles of a more adroit scoundrel than himself. Within a comparatively short period a manipulator of a machine of this kind in a great western metropolis found his attention diverted from his “clock,” with its attached string, by the progress of a fight in one corner of his room. There appeared to be no doubt as to the genuineness of the combatants’ hostility, the blows were heavy and blood flowed freely. The available force of the place was called into requisition to separate the combatants and restore order. Peace having once more settled down upon the establishment and the brawlers having been ejected, business was resumed. A quiet-looking gentleman, who had recently entered, became deeply interested in the market for “Jem Dandy;” he bought and sold with apparent recklessness, yet—mirabile dictu—he invariably won. He bet largely and won enormously. In consequence the proprietor concluded to abjure “speculation” for the day. In other words, he posted a placard to the effect that holders of contracts might cash their winnings at once, but that the house proposed to suspend further business until the next morning.

Of course the fight was what gamblers term a “stall,” i. e., a trick by which another gang of sharpers might have an opportunity of resorting to the same tactics employed by professionals who travel about the country “snaking” cards. In other words, and plainer English, the “fight,” however seemingly earnest, was in reality a sham. Five sharpers were confederated in the perpetration of the scheme. Three of them engaged in the scrimmage, one of them took advantage of the melee to “ring in a cold deck,” and the other, handsomely dressed and imperturbable of demeanor, quietly saw his confederates “pound” one another, and then quietly bet upon the descent of the cards from a pre-arranged pack which had been substituted in the receptacle for those placed there by the proprietor’s employes.

I hardly know how I could more fittingly close my exposition of gambling than by a description such as that given above. Nothing could more aptly illustrate the remorseless tactics of the professional scoundrel; nothing could better show the gullibility of the dupe; nothing could better exemplify the hollowness of the adage that there is “honor among thieves.”

O, young men of the only republic which has demonstrated its past vitality by the average virtue of its citizens; O, parents, to whose tender care has been committed a charge which God Himself has denominated a sacred trust; O, law-makers, to whose wisdom is entrusted the framing of statutes for the repression of vice and the propagation and perpetuation of public morals—listen to the voice of a penitent who has sounded the utmost depths of degradation. The enlightenment of the intellect, the awakening of the conscience, the conversion of the will—these are the agencies which Divine Providence may employ to avert from the American people the wrath of Him who has said that the casting of the lot is in the hands of the Lord.

No description of the Chicago Board of Trade would be complete which failed to bring out, in bold relief, the figure of the daring speculator whose mysterious movements have long proved an enigma to his fellow members, the sphinx of the chamber, the “king of the wheat pit,” Mr. Benjamin Peters Hutchinson, better known to his friends and to the country at large as “Old Hutch.” The accompanying cut is a good likeness of this remarkable man. Born in New England, he emigrated to the West while a mere youth, and has “grown up” with Chicago. Endowed by nature with indomitable pluck and marvelous energy, he has carved out his own success. He is beyond question the largest operator on the floor of ’Change in the city of his choice, and his ventures are as bold as they are gigantic. In a business enterprise he fears no foe, as he recognizes no friend, and his tall, spare form looms up as a tower of granite in the midst of the turbulent waves of speculation which surge around him.

Gambling holds a high place among the vices of society. It proposes to the young that they secure money without earning it honestly. It thus asks thousands of persons to disregard the noble pursuits and to become gamblers. True manhood is made by the following of an honorable industry. If we contrast Watt, who made the engine, with some gambler, the difference at once appears between the noble callings and the games of chance. The lawyer, the physician, the mechanic, the inventor, the writer can show a reason of existence. With the gambler this is impossible. He has no reason for being in life.

The first evil of gambling is this intellectual loss, incurred by being turned away from all those honorable pursuits which create mental power. Astronomy helped make Newton,Newton, art made Angelo, the law helped make Burke and Webster, traffic made Peabody and Peter Cooper, the press made Greeley and Raymond, but gambling will take the best mind the age can produce and degrade it to the level of the brain of a trickster or a thief. There is nothing in gambling except a kind of sneaking hope of a shameful success. It is a contest in which victory is as shameful as defeat.

The professional gambler does not glory in his calling. He does not call a convention for the purpose of conferring with the scientific men of the age; nor does he demand a corner in the world’s “fairs” that he may exhibit his implements and methods. His occupation asks concealment, and thus makes the features of the face carry at last the strange evidences of the hidden art.

The many fashionable people who play cards for a little money extract from the game a little amusement, but a certain per centum of those who thus begin so modestly move on to a financial and mental ruin. The taste for games of chance grows as days pass, and the one who played a little passes on until he plays much. Soon the heart, mind and face are those of the gambler.

The gambling room is based upon fraud. The philosophy is simply that of craft against innocence. It is a well known fact that a large part of the human race is simple-minded. These can be preyed upon by those who have made craft a study. Many persons are weak and innocent enough to be caught in a trap. The professional gambler belongs to a form of humanity which will spend life in betraying persons younger and less suspicious than itself. A large part of the human race possesses innocence enough to enable them to be betrayed. The gambler thus makes his fortune by wrecking the trust men have in each other. He picks the pockets of the simple of heart.

The game of the professional gambler is not one of chance. They cannot afford to use a fair game of chance, because nature would be against them half the time and loss and gain would be equal. All those games played on the railway and in the “den” are the gambler’s own games. They are doctored so as to fall, like loaded dice, in his favor. For the young man to play with a gambler is to be beaten. Fairness is a virtue for which the gambler has no use. If he loved fairness he would work at some trade or turn farmer. Luck may help a man for a day, but it will go over to the other man to-morrow, for it is no respecter of persons. The only help that will stand by a gambler all the year through is fraud.

It is difficult to measure this vice, but it is so great as to merit from all civilized States immediate destruction. Like the opium habit, it must be checked by law. When the police will not enforce an existing law, they cease to be police, because the word “police” implies the care of a city, the study of its welfare. It is a bad condition of wool-growing when wolves are employed to guard sheep.

“Did you ever see the autograph of the President?” said Warden B., of the I. State Penitentiary. He had been a member of my congregation for years, and at his request I had visited the prison to preach to the convicts. The wagon which brought me from the station carried the mail bag, and, while looking over his letters, he held up a large official envelope with the above question.

“No,” I answered, taking my eyes from the intelligent convict who sat in striped clothing writing at a desk, and whose shaven and shame-flushed face was persistently turned from me. “I would like to see his signature, as my vote helped to put him in the White House.”

“There it is,” said the warden, handing me the document, which I soon discovered to be a pardon for a certain youth, who had served three years of a six years sentence for theft from the Post Office Department.

“Why is this pardon given, warden?” “Well,” said he, “this young man is of good family, and has dependent on him a widowed mother, a wife and child. He became the dupe of gamblers who fleeced him, and then the Devil, I reckon, suggested that he might recoup his loss by stealing from the Government, and in an evil hour he fell, was detected, convicted, and with other United States men sent here. I remember the day he came; how heart-broken he stood in the corridor till the sheriff gave me the papers, unloosed his shackles, and turned the gang over to me. They were coupled in irons on the cars, and John was paired with a hardened felon who had done time before, as had most of the lot. They glanced defiantly around at the officers with a braggart insolence as the iron gates clanged on them, but he paled and trembled, tears silently flowing down his face to the stone floor. I followed to the bath-house, where they are washed, shaved, cropped and dressed in stripes. At the registry, when asked his age, name, etc., with great effort he managed to answer, but when asked his father’s name, a vision of the dead seemed to rise before him. Overwhelmed with shame he tried thrice with choking utterance to tell the name, and then faltered it with such a moan of agony that even the clerk, used to such scenes, felt his hand tremble as he wrote it down. You know our rules require the reading of all letters before they reach the prisoners. The chaplain, at my request, read those sent to him. We found such woe, such evidence of his former honor, such testimony to his previous good character, that friends became interested in him. I helped them, thinking it a case for Executive clemency. The President, who is a merciful man, looked into the case, pondered it a month, and sends this pardon.”

“Now,” I said when the sad story was ended, “warden, I want to ask a favor. Let me present this pardon to him in person. I understand that it makes him free from this hour; I wish to study the human face in the moment when the revelation that he is free dawns on his mind. May I do this?”

“Certainly,” was the answer, and striking a silver bell, a “trusty” appeared. He said, “Tom, bring John R. to my office at once.”

While waiting, I said, “Does he expect a pardon?”

“No,” was the answer, “he knows nothing of the efforts to set him free. It will be a total surprise to him.”

In a few moments the trusty returned with the man he was sent to summon. The jail garb did not wholly hide his handsome form, nor the cropped hair entirely vulgarize the intellectual countenance which fell as he saw strangers looking at him. He seemed to wonder why he was ordered up before the warden; there was shame, sorrow, helplessness in his face as I rose, with the paper in my hand and walked toward him.

“John,” said the warden, “this gentleman has a few words to say to you.”

The convict braced himself for the interview, and I said, “Your name is John R., I believe.” “Yes,” he replied steadily.

“I have here,” I went on, “a paper addressed to you, signed by the President of the United States. It is a pardon. You are a free man, John.”

The look of assumed courage in his eyes changed to one of infinite pathos, then softened piteously as his soul swooned with joy that was almost too much. I saw him sway as if to fall, but caught him, and leaning on my shoulder, he said, “Free! free! O God, is it true? When can I go home?” “This very moment,” said I. He looked wistfully out the great door where the sentry stood, and asked, “Can I go out there now.”

“Yes,” I said, “come, I will go with you,” and arm in arm we walked down the great stone stair, passed the guards into the street and across to a fence beyond. He stopped a pace or two away, looked at the emerald hills, the river flowing by, the children passing, the firmament above, and as the happy tears drenched his face, said: “O, sir, I am the happiest man alive. When does the train start East?” “At three,” I said, “I will see you safely started.”

“Wont my wife and baby Jess be glad to-morrow, and mother, how she will smile; I am eager to be off.” I took him in and soon saw him fitted with the civilian’s clothes and provided with the railway ticket to his destination, and with the $10 the State gives every released convict.convict.

How proudly he walked by my side to the station, and as the bell clanged, he held my hand and said, “You talk to hundreds of young men. SirSir, tell them this, tell it with burning eloquence, tell it with pleading tears, beware of gaming, shun gamblers as lepers. Cards are accursed of God, and pass-ports to perdition. Will you tell them this?” And as the train moved off I said, “I will.”

To this end I write a chapter in this book, that by earnest warning or brotherly appeal, I may help to pluck young men out of the hands of this giant enemy of our race, and perhaps halt some who are already hurrying down this highway to dishonor. Standing here at the very gates of these polluted temples, where many have been cruelly “done to death,” I raise the cry “beware of gaming. It dishonors God, degrades man, wrecks honor, ruins business, destroys homes, breaks wifely hearts, steals babes’ bread, brings mothers sorrowing to the grave, and at last, with reckless bravado, launches the sinful soul into the path of God’s descending wrath, to be overwhelmed forever.”

The only argument offered by gamblers is that their business keeps money in circulation. It does, indeed, transferring it from the pocket of the fool to that of the knave, and thence to the pockets of the harlot or rum-seller, but there is no gain in this transaction. Better the money had remained where it was, or been put to other uses.

Young men will read these words who know not one card from another; who have no personal knowledge of lotteries, raffles, dice or betting. Yours is blissful ignorance, honorable innocence.

How I love the youth who can say, when cards are brought out for play in a private house, “I do not know one card from another. I have no desire to learn their use.” Young heart of oak, give me thy hand. Some will sneer, I charge you to keep your honor bright.

Though people of good character persuade and gloss this evil, stand firm as the hills. Should professing Christians (God pity them) make of the painted paste-boards a social snare, be the company never so charming, the stakes never so trifling, beware. Once you play the first game, you are on the slant; the descent is smooth and swift, and the end is terrible.

You will hear sophistries about the difference between playing and gambling, and the harmlessness of cards and other Devil’s toggery. Playing is the egg out of which the cockatrice is hatched. Handle it not.

Climbing a slippery pass in the Alps, one comes to a narrow icy path with a great rock on the one hand, and a deep gorge on the other. It is called by the guides the “Hell Place,” and you are asked to creep cautiously there, a slip is destruction. The green cloth of the gaming table is the moral hell place to many souls; to this, sorrowing relatives, weeping wives, heart-broken mothers can point and say, “There my boy slipped, there my husband fell, lost property, position, honor, all.” At the foot of this slant is the prisoner’s cell, the maniac’s cage, the suicide’s grave; at the top the smiling decoy, shod with adder skin, or the smooth tongued gamester, waiting to lure men to the fatal hazard.

Some will read these words who are already acquainted with the beginnings of this honeyed vice. They have shuffled the satanic pack, booked the bet, and perhaps pinched themselves in purse to pay the lost wager, or have now in pocket the coins won at gambling. Take these coins out and look at them; they are unclean, polluted.

Once, when the plague ravished an English village, the wretched people resorted to the bank of the stream near by, to get bread left there for them. They tossed the coins for payment into the brook where they were found hours afterwards by those who sold the food. They thought the water had cleansed the pestilent contagion from the coins. Perhaps it had, but no brook, river or sea hath tide medicinal enough to cleanse the curse from money won at gaming. It is cankered. It is blood-stained and tear-rusted. It will curse him that wins and him that loses.

My friend, you are yet only a novice in this black art. Let me, by all rational appeal, abjure you to abstain. It is the father of falsehood, forgery and fraud, and the covetous human heart is the mother of this ill-gotten brood.

Can you specify one instance where the gains of gambling have brought comfort or contentment? What would your father think, your employer say, if they knew that you were a gamester, spending your evenings where these human swine whet their tusks? Who sinks so low in the mire of infamy as the man who is kicked out of business or society with the millstone of gambling hung to his neck? Bitter is the ban and black is the brand put on the wretch whose hardened forehead is set against the hissing of that word “gambler.”

Who are the associates a man finds at races and the card table? Are they not the Pariahs, social lepers whose touch is pollution? Would a man take his sisters or his children among these white-fanged wolves; are they not nameless at the hearth, unknown where high-toned and virtuous people meet? Think of the vile talk, the impure jest, the unclean associations. You cannot stoop to this. What can money buy, though you won every wager, that will repay you for the loss of wifely love, childhood’s trust, the father’s proud faith in his boy.

Consider the malign vicissitudes of this sport, see the ruined, forsaken, nerveless gambler, wrecked and wretched at last; abandoned to the gibes of men, and the anger of God; crawling into a lazaretto to die. Mother, with dimpled hands upheld to you at evening, and fair head pillowed on your bosom, think not, “My bonnie boy is safe.” This fiend spares none. He will seek this braw lad to destroy him. With devilish cunning he will even persuade you to aid in your son’s downfall; to teach him in the social game, to use the leprous papers of the pit, on which is inscribed the voiceless litany of woe.

Hell’s utmost anguish surely has no deeper depth than that of the mother who sees her son a degraded, sodden gamester, and remembers that she taught him to handle the implements of his ruin. If a mother can front the judgment and say, “I never countenancedcountenanced the evil, I bitterly opposed it always, to the utmost of my power,” she may feel when her dear son is lost, the most unspeakable regret, but she escapes the remorse which eats the heart of her who unwittingly fostered the serpent which compassed her child’s destruction. Let us ring our children round with circles of flame across which none of these man hawks can come. Let us make home the happiest place on earth. With mirth, laughter, music, books, friends; a safe refuge, a snug harbor, a shadow of a great rock, and a citadel for defence of our dear ones from this pitiless foe.

Let me sketch the career of an upright, kindly village youth who longs for a wider field of action. He has mastered the elements of business as practiced in the rural community; he desires to try his talents in the busy world, and chooses a mighty city as the field of his endeavor. A roaring center of commercial activity; its streets a throbbing ganglion of business nerves; its mart the engorged plexus of traffic, where the best and the worst have habitation.

As I see this young fellow, with face like an open book, standing for the first time in the city’s streets, I am reminded of a scene I once witnessed in the country. I stood on the edge of a wood looking across a beautiful meadow. It was a perfect day in June, and all the world seemed at peace. Crickets were chirping in the grass, the yellow-hammer was tapping on a tree above, the cattle were grazing brisket-deep in the lush grass, the birds were singing as if to breathe were music. All nature looked lovely. Far away across the brook, on a dead tree, I noticed a number of buzzards, waiting for the sight of something on which they might gorge their unclean appetites.

I think of this as I watch him alone on the city’s street at evening, gazing into a window where the light falls on diamonds, opals, rubies; amid the din of the city, near the theaters and saloons, where music throbs, lamps flare, cabs rattle, and through these noises comes a voice in modulated semi-tones from one standing at his side, who asks: “Did you hear of the big winning last night.”night.” “No, sir, where was it?” “Up the street, at old Brad’s place, No. 197. A fellow won $6,000 in two hours. I am going up to try my luck. Come along, just for the fun of the thing.” He goes. The front of the house is dark; a red light burns over the stairway door—danger signal over a bottomless abyss. He is void of understanding; a private key, pass word, or patron of the game is needed to secure entrance. The panel of the door slips aside, a whisper, then a reply. The door opens, upstairs they go. Men seated and standing scarcely look up—wheels click—dice rattle—cards shuffle—glasses clink—sooty servants glide with trays, and bottles—cheap stucco statuary appear through the smoke—muttered curses tell of losses. He is led to the faro table, where a mastiff-faced man deals cards, and after he has sipped a little liquor, which is freely offered, he tells his guide that he has never played. He is informed that a man always wins his first bet—fortune favors first play. Men put chips in his hands, saying, “Play this bet for me.” “But I don’t know the cards,” he replies. “Put the bet down on any card, it will surely win.” Down it goes—it wins—and as they rake in the gains, he thinks, “I might have won a month’s salary in a moment.” Lightly as snowflakes fall the cards; deft the touch; swift the shuffle. It seems so simple. He carries money saved from a father’s toil, a sister’s earnings offered to help him secure his stock of goods to start business. Mother has helped him, saying, “David will help me when I need his help. I will have a strong son to lean on when my old feet dip down falteringly to the cold river of death.”

As he hesitates there on the porch of Perdition, he is about to bid farewell to peace, farewell to prospects of success, farewell to the promise of his young manhood, farewell to the prayers of his parents. Pray, mother! with clasped hands kneeling at this very hour under the pictures in your boy’s room. Pray, “God be gracious to my boy. Gird him round with mercy.” Sing, sister, sing! Sitting alone where the moon-light falls on thy fingers as they wander over the keys, sing soft and low the very hymn you sang at parting, “God be with you till we meet again.” Sing! maiden, till the tears falling fast tell the fears uprising in thy heart.

Look, old father, down the road where the peaceful world lies transfigured in the mellow beams of the moon; down the road where he went away so cheery, brave, tender, looking backwards from the coach with many a wave of the hand and fond goodbye. Listen, father to the whip-poor-will in the copse answering the katydid in the hedge, frogs shrilling from the swamp, an owl hooting from the woods; the air grows cold, a chilling sense of discomfort shakes thy frame.

Ah, if thou couldst see thy son now, thy hope, thy pride—among knaves. He stakes his means—he wins—he has doubled his fund. Good, good—his face glows, his pulses are rhythmic to the music of success. Excited, confident, reckless, he loses—doubles his loss—forgets all prudence, unrolls the savings of years on the little farm—mother’s needle, father’s plow, sister’s music lessons, earned that hoard. He piles it on the board with burning eyes set on the cards, watches them coming one by one. Oh, unpicturable horror! Money, honor, parental hopes—all earthly and eternal weal staked on that hazard. The Sphinx-faced scoundrel slips the card—the young man hears the word “Lost!”—sees the sharpers laugh as the dealer draws in his all. The room swims before his sight; madness seizes him as the sneering taunt, “Another sucker done up,” smites him like a lash across the face.

Frenzied, he clears the table at a bound, his brown fingers close around the white throat of the lean-faced hellion who has robbed him. Like a tiger uncaged he hurls him to the floor, and fronts the crowd of desperadoes with blazing face. In vain are all his struggles; many leap on him, he is beaten, kicked, hustled down stairs, where, hatless and bruised, he madly pounds the heavy door till his hand is a mass of bleeding pain. All in vain. He turns helplessly at last to the street, and through the gray light of dawn finds his room. For hours he hangs on misery’s brink; haggard remorse sits opposite and suggests suicide. Swift as a homing dove his thoughts fly to the farm.

He sees his father in the furrow, his mother in the doorway, her face as radiant as the morning. She gathers a few honeysuckles for his empty room, to her it is a sanctuary now, and he liked them so, and ’twill seem as though he was coming home soon.

An organ beneath his room strikes up an air heavy with old memories; the tune of “The Old Folks at Home,” quavers through his window. With a shuddering cry—“A gambler! a gambler! Oh, God, be merciful; let me die,” he falls by the bedside and burning tears are vain to staunch the hurt in his heart.

He is now in a whirlpool; return seems impossible. You have seen an apple tree in May, rosy in pink and white blossoms, murmurous with bees, glad with birds and glorious with sunshine. In one night the frost kills the bloom; next day the tree hangs with damp, blighted blossoms and blackened buds, an unlovely spectacle.

Few escape the bitter end who begin a gamester’s career.

Next we find him in snuggeries, curtained from basement bar-rooms, studying the cards at midnight, robbing unwary verdants. Conscience is seared as with a hot iron. His heart is flint. He strives with drink to banish thoughts of home, heaven and God; grows morose, cunning, merciless; works a little, hurries again to the feverish excitement of the game, herds with greasy disreputables in foul dens, amid the reek of pipes and hideous blasphemy. Soiled, ill-kempt, rag-clad, he nears the bottom of the slant. One night, crazed with vile rum, he mingles in a fight with fellow outcasts; blood is shed; the alarm brings the clattering patrol wagon, and through the red of early dawn he rides to a cell in murderer’s row. Convicted, condemned, he goes to prison for life—years pass—his sorrowing parents think him dead. He is dead. He died that night when he climbed the stairs to “Old Brad’s den.”

His post is to open and close a gate in the prison yard. Seven years in stripes, taciturn, sullen, he stands there. His soul starves, his heart stagnates, his face becomes stupidly half-human, despair feeds on his mind.

One day two visiting gentlemen see him, they recognize him and speak, holding out a hand which he will not take, trying to stir hope within him. They talk to him of freedom and home. He makes no sign of pleasure; hopeless vacuity rests on his imbruted face. He stares at his gate, shuts it, and says, “Seven years dead, seven years dead.” There he stands, and will stand, till carried to the little graveyard of the prison, touching at last the lowest level of the slant on which the gambler stands.

I charge you with a jealous affection, born of an unfeigned brotherhood, and based on many years study of the effects of this vice. Beware of the beginning of gambling. Have no commerce with the monster iniquity.

First of all, because it dethrones God. Seek its victims in the ranks of bankrupt merchants, in the cells of criminals, in the cellars of shame, or garrets of poverty; talk with them, or with those who have suffered through them, and you will find that the sad sequence of misery began with this heinous affront to God, viz: a practical denial of His very existence and a setting up in His place a blind deity called Chance, before whom they bowed, and on whose favor they risked their all. Even if in their darkened minds the votaries of gaming allow God to exist, they deny His government of the affairs of men. They flee away from all works that can win the help of Jehovah, and ask only the help of fortune. This is heathenry of the worst sort. The farmer plows, plants, cultivates, and hopes that the God of nature will help him by sending sun, rain and dew, that together they may produce the harvest. The sailor, by the march of the constellations and the veracity of the magnetic needle which God offers for his guidance, comes at last to port. The mason builds his wall by the laws of God, and his plumb line and level bear eloquent witness that he wishes to base his work on the certain laws which steadfastly bind the worlds together. These men, however much they ignore God in their speech, keep faith with Him in their work, knowing full well that they can only succeed in any task by keeping in line with His laws. Thus they have yoked the elements to the car of progress. The gambler, however, mocks at God’s laws and insolently banishes Him. He asks no help from fixed laws ordained by the Father to bless his children; he scorns the co-operation of Nature, sets up a fetish called Fortune, and grovelling, courts its smiles. I know of no form of paganism more base than this, and it is not surprising that in the worship of this block-eyed god, the most obscene rites and debasing superstitions are practiced. Dreams, charms, spells, incantations, black art, even the help of the powers of darkness have been used in wooing his favor. The most frightful depths of moral and mental depravity are touched in this shameful business. The negro who sells stolen articles to buy lottery tickets has some gruesome cabalistic secret which he fondly hopes will bring the favor of fortune; the lady who cons the dream-book in her room to learn which number to buy, and fancies her night vision of a gallows tree or a burning Bible will bring propitious fate, are alike far from reason and from God.

Frogs, spiders, beetles, graveyard grass, rabbits killed in burial places, pieces cut from a shroud or slivers from a coffin will insure winnings. Some put the ticket in the cold hand of a corpse, and the lowest level of blasphemous sacrilege is touched when the bread of the sacrament is carried secretly home to be used as a sort of magic aid to conjure the desired gain. Can anything more awful be conceived by the human mind—nay, could the most malignant devil desire a more direct insult to God than this? First the Creator is asked to abdicate His throne to this monstrous usurper, then the sacred symbols of His Son’s sacrificial death are offered to propitiate the unclean and unholy thing set up in His place. This is the iniquity of Balshazar’s feast repeated in our time. The sacred vessels of His holy worship are employed in the service of sensual lust or abandoned carnality. What shall be the outcome of all this depravity? If these souls seeking the brief success of the gamester deliberately turn away from God and practice harlotry with the princes of hell, wantoning with the powers of the pit in unblushing shame, who will paint their last estate when his vengeance finds them out?

The traveller in Egypt who explores with Arab guides the dismal mummy pits by the Nile finds some startling experiences in these caverns of the dead. More fearsome than the dark labyrinths where the bodies lie wrapped in linen and smeared with ghastly hideousness, more terrible than the gloomy grottos where cadavorous mortality swathed in silence waits the resurrection trump, is that grisly cave where the bats, the unclean birds, make their home. Into this the hardiest guides dare not go. The uncanny creatures invade it in myriads, and with their fluttering, furry vans, would quench the light and drive out the bravest intruder. If one desires a sight of these birds, he stands in the sunlight at noon close to the rocky ledge which walls the gardens of the Pharoahs. A shiek, musket in hand, steps a few paces into the vault. His gun is fired directly into the Plutonian chamber with a roar as if an earthquake was shaking the knees of the eternal hills. Then a dark torrent of winged things, with a sound as of a mighty wind, sweeps out into the light, fluttering the sweet air into horror with leathern wings. They fly about in circles and dart back, pained and dazzled by the light, into their obscene home. Some in blindness, eager to escape the sun, dash themselves against the rocky lintel and posts of the entrance, and fall broken and mangled at your feet, as tremblingly you shrink from the bruised clots fluttering in dying spasms about you.

Such shall be the condition of these poor blinded souls who choose darkness rather than day, leaving the light of the smile of heaven to dwell in the gloomy precincts where the gamester’s deity sits in grim mockery and receives the worship of his clans. Suddenly, with a mighty shout, shall their leaden souls be wakened to their shame. The shining Angel, with one sandal on the heaving earth, and the other in the swelling sea, shall cry in trumpet tones that split the silence of earthly crypts and sea deep caves, “Awake, ye dead, and come to judgment!” Then, impelled by a resistless force, shall all souls sweep into the bright light of the great white throne.

Some who have looked at the cross on that lone Syrian hill, shall see one beloved seated thereon, and shall sing for very joy as they press nearer for his greeting. Others who come from the confines of Godless unbelief will be dazzled into blindness by the glory of his presence.