"Tom Blunt," said Richard Sharp, "I deny your premises, condemn your
reasoning as illogical, and reject your conclusions with scorn!"
The youth who made this remark with very considerable assurance and
emphasis was a student. His fellow-student received it with an air of
bland good-nature.
"Dick," said he, "your oratory is rotund, and if it were convincing
might be impressive; but it fails to some extent in consequence of a
certain smack of self-assertion which is unphilosophical. Suppose, now,
that we have this matter out in a calm, dispassionate manner, without
`tooth,' or egotism, or prejudice, which tend so powerfully to mar human
disputation and render it abortive."
"With all my heart, Tom," said the other, drawing close to the fire,
placing one foot against the mantelpiece, as being a comfortable, though
not elegant posture, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, and
placing his hands in that position--with all the finger tips touching
each other--which seems, from the universal practice of civilised
society, to assist mental elucidation. "I am quite prepared. Come on!"
"Stay; while my mind is working I like to have my hands employed. I
will proceed with my monkey while we talk," said Blunt, taking up a
walking-stick, the head of which he had carved into the semblance of a
monkey. "Sweet creature!" he added, kissing the object of his
affection, and holding it out at arm's-length. "Silent companion of my
solitary rambles, and patient auditor of my most secret aspirations, you
are becoming quite a work of art. A few more touches of the knife, and
something like perfection shall have been attained! Look here, Dick,
when I turn it towards the light--so--isn't there a beauty about the
contour of that upper lip and nose which--"
"Don't be a fool, Tom," interrupted his friend, somewhat impatiently;
"you seem to me to be growing more and more imbecile every day. We did
not sit down to discuss fine art--"
"True, Richard, true; but there is a power in the consideration of fine
art, which, when judiciously interpolated in the affairs of life, tends
to soften the asperities, to round away, as it were, the ruggedness of
human intercourse, and produce a tranquillity of mind which is eminently
conducive to--to--don't you see?"
"No, I don't see!"
"Then," continued Blunt, applying his knife to one of the monkey's eyes,
"there arises the question--how far is this intellectual blindness the
result of incapacity of intellectual vision, or of averted gaze, or of
the wilful shutting of the intellectual eyelids?"
"Well, well, Tom, let that question alone for the present. Let us come
to the point, for I wish to have my mind cleared up on the subject. You
hold that gambling is wrong--essentially wrong."
"I do; but let us not have a misunderstanding at the very beginning,"
said Blunt. "By gambling I do not mean the playing of games. That is
not gambling. What I understand by gambling is betting on games--or on
anything--and the playing of games for the purpose of winning money, or
anything that possesses value, great or small. Such gambling I hold to
be wrong--essentially, morally, absolutely wrong, without one particle
of right or good in it whatever."
As he spoke Blunt became slightly more earnest in tone, and less devoted
to the monkey.
"Well, now, Tom, do you know I don't see that."
"If you did see it, my dear fellow," returned Blunt, resuming his airy
tone, "our discussion of the subject would be useless."
"Well, then, I _can't_ see it to be wrong. Here are you and I. We want
to have a game of billiards. It is uninteresting to play even billiards
for nothing; but we each have a little money, and choose to risk a small
sum. Our object is not gain, therefore we play for merely sixpenny
points. We both agree to risk that sum. If I lose, all right. If you
lose, all right. That's fair, isn't it?"
"No; it is undoubtedly equal, but not necessarily fair. Fair means
`free from blemish,' `pure,' in other words, right. Two thieves may
make a perfectly fair division of spoil; but the fairness of the
division does not make their conduct fair or right. Neither of them is
entitled to divide their gains at all. Their agreeing to do so does not
make it fair."
"Agreed, Tom, as regards thieves; but you and I are not thieves. We
propose to act with that which is our own. We mutually agree to run the
risk of loss, and to take our chance of gain. We have a right to do as
we choose with our own. Is not that fair?"
"You pour out so many fallacies and half truths, Dick, that it is not
easy to answer you right off."
"Morally and politically you are wrong. Politically a man is not
entitled to do what he chooses with his own. There are limitations.
For instance, a man owns a house. Abstractly, he is entitled to burn it
down if he chooses. But if his house abuts upon mine, he may not set it
on fire if he chooses, because in so doing he would set fire to my house
also, which is very much beyond his right. Then--"
"Oh, man, I understand all that," said Sharp quickly. "Of course a man
may put what he likes in his garden, but with such-like limitations as
that he shall not set up a limekiln to choke his neighbours, or a
piggery to breed disease; but gambling does nothing like that."
"Does it not?" exclaimed Blunt. "Does it not ruin hundreds of men,
turning them into sots and paupers, whereby the ruined gamblers become
unable to pay their fair share of taxation; and, in addition, lay on the
shoulders of respectable people the unfair burden of supporting them,
and perhaps their families?"
"But what if the gambler has no family?"
"There still remains his ruined self to be maintained."
"But suppose he is not ruined--that he manages, by gambling, to support
himself?"
"In that case he still remains guilty of two mean and contemptible acts.
On the one hand he produces nothing whatever to increase the wealth or
happiness of the world, and, on the other hand, whatever he gains is a
matter of direct loss and sorrow to others without any tangible
equivalent. It is not so with the orator or the musician. Though their
products are not indeed tangible they are distinctly real and valuable.
During the hour of action the orator charms the ear, eye, and intellect.
So does the musician. When the hour is past the heart is gladdened by
the memory of what has been, and the hopes are aroused in anticipation
of what may yet be in the future. As regards the orator, the lessons
inculcated may be a lasting gain and pleasure, and source of widespread
benefit through life. To a great extent this may also be said of the
musician when words are wedded to music. Who has not heard of souls
being delivered from spiritual darkness and brought into spiritual light
by means of song?--a benefit which will last through eternity as well as
time. Even the man of wealth who lives on the interest of his
possessions is not necessarily a drone in the human hive. He may, by
wise and careful use of his wealth, greatly increase the world's riches.
By the mere management of it he may fill up his days with useful and
happy employment, and by devoting it and himself to God he may so
influence the world for good that men shall bless him while he lives and
mourn him profoundly when he dies. But what fraction of good is done by
the gambler in all the wide world?"
"Much the same that is accomplished by the others," put in Sharp at this
point. "The orator gives pleasure to those who are fond of recitation
or declamation; the musician pleases those who are fond of sweet sounds,
and the gambler gives pleasure to men who are fond of the excitement of
play. Besides, by paying his way he gives benefit to all whom he
employs. He rents a house, he buys furniture, he eats food, all of
which brings profit to house-owners, cabinet-makers, butchers, bakers,
etcetera, and is good done to the world by the gambler."
"Nay, friend Richard, not by the gambler, but by the money which the
gambler spends."
"Isn't that much the same thing?"
"By no means. The money--or its equivalent--is created by some one
else. The gambler merely passes it on. If he had never been born the
same money would have been there for some one else to spend. The labour
of the gambler has not added one penny to it. He brought nothing into
the world, and has added nothing to the world's pile, though he has
managed to consume a good deal of its produce. Is there not something
very mean and contemptible in this state of being? On the other hand
the orator has spent laborious days and exerted much brain-power before
he made himself capable of pleasing and benefiting his fellows. The
musician has gone through exhausting drudgery and practice before being
fit to thrill or instruct by means of his sweet sounds, and the man of
wealth has had to be educated up to the point of using his possessions
to profitable account--so that his fields shall grow heavier crops than
they did when he began his work; his tenants shall be better housed than
they were at first, and shall lead healthier and happier lives to the
great moral and material advantage of the community. Nearly all the
other members of the hive produce, or help to produce, some sort of
equivalent for the money they obtain. Even those who produce what is
bad have still _something_ to show for their money, and that something,
bad though it be in one form, may be decidedly good in another form, or
if put to another use. The gambler alone--except, perhaps, the absolute
idler--enjoys the unenviable position of a thorough, out-and-out,
unmitigated drone. He does absolutely _nothing_, except produce
unhealthy excitement in himself and his fellows! He has nothing
whatever to show for the money he has obtained except `risk,' and that
can hardly be styled a commodity."
"I beg pardon," interrupted Sharp, "the gambler produces skill; and
there can be no doubt that hundreds of men derive as much pleasure from
an exhibition of skill with the billiard-cue as others derive from an
exhibition of skill with the flute or violin."
"You forget, Dick, my boy, that skill with the billiard-cue is not
gambling. What I condemn as being morally and politically wrong is
betting on games and staking anything upon the issue of them. Gamblers
are, if I may say so, a set of living pockets which circulate money
about amongst themselves, one pocket gaining neither more nor less than
what another pocket loses."
"But you are now talking of professional gamblers, Tom. Of course I
don't defend these. What I do defend is my right to play, now and then,
for sixpenny, or say shilling, or even half-crown points, without laying
myself open to the charge of having been guilty of what you term a mean,
dishonourable, unjust, contemptible act."
"In other words, you wish to steal now and then without being called a
thief! But come, old man, I won't call you bad names. I know you don't
look at this matter as I do, and therefore I don't think that you are
either mean or contemptible. Nevertheless, we must bear in mind that
honourable, upright men may sometimes be reasoned into false beliefs, so
that for a time they may fail to see the evil of that which they uphold.
I am not infallible. If my reasoning is false, I stand open to
correction."
Laying the monkey down on the table at this point and looking earnestly
at his friend, Tom Blunt continued--
"Let me ask a question, Dick. Is it for the sake of getting money that
you gamble?"
"Certainly not," returned his friend, with a slight touch of
indignation. "You know that I _never_ play for high stakes, and with
penny or sixpenny points you know it is impossible for me either to win
or lose any sum that would be worth a moment's consideration. The game
is all that I care for."
"If so, why do you lose interest in the game when there are no stakes?"
"Oh--well, it's hard to say; but the value of the stake cannot be that
which adds interest, for it is so trifling."
"I'm not so sure of that, Dick. You have heard gambling talked of as a
disease."
"Yes, but I don't believe it is."
"Do you believe that a miser is a morally diseased man?"
"Well, perhaps he is," returned Sharp; "but a gambler is not necessarily
a miser."
"Yet the two have some symptoms of this moral disease in common. The
miser is sometimes rich, nevertheless the covetous spirit is so strong
in him that he gloats over a sixpence, has profound interest in gaining
it, and mourns over it if lost. You, being well off with a rich and
liberal father, yet declare that the interest of a game is much
decreased if there are no stakes on it."
"The cases are not parallel."
"I did not say they were, but you must admit--indeed you have admitted--
that you have one symptom of this disease in common with the miser."
"What disease?"
"The love of money."
Richard Sharp burst into a laugh at this, a good-humoured laugh in which
there was more of amusement than annoyance.
"Tom, Tom," he said, "how your notions about gambling seem to blind you
to the true character of your friends! Did you ever see me gloating
over gold, or hoarding sixpences, or going stealthily in the dead of
night to secret places for the purpose of counting over my wealth? Have
I not rather, on the contrary, got credit among my friends for being
somewhat of a spendthrift? But go on, old fellow, what more have you to
say against gambling--for you have not yet convinced me?"
"Hold on a bit. Let me pare off just a morsel of my monkey's nose--
there, that's about as near perfection as is possible in a monkey. What
a pity that he has not life enough to see his beautiful face in a glass!
But perhaps it's as well, for he would never see himself as others see
him. Men never do. No doubt monkeys are the same. Well now,"
continued Blunt, again laying down the stick, and becoming serious, "try
if you can see the matter in this light. Two gamblers meet. Not
blacklegs, observe, but respectable men, who nevertheless bet much, and
play high, and keep `books,' etcetera. One is rich, the other poor.
Each wishes ardently to gain money from his friend. This is a somewhat
low, unmanly wish, to begin with; but let it pass. The poor one has a
wife and family to keep, and debts to pay. Many thousands of men, ay,
and women, are in the same condition, and work hard to pay their debts.
Our poor gambler, however, does not like work. He prefers to take his
chance at gambling; it is easier, he thinks, and it is certainly, in a
way, more exciting than work. Our rich gambler has no need to work, but
he also likes excitement, and he loves money. Neither of these men
would condescend for one moment to ask a gift of money from the other,
yet each is so keen to obtain his friend's money that they agree to
stake it on a chance, or on the issue of a contest. For one to _take_
the money from the other, who does not wish to part with it, would be
unfair and wrong, of course; but their agreement gets rid of the
difficulty. It has not altered the _conditions_, observe. Neither of
them wishes to give up his money, but an arrangement has been come to,
in virtue of which one consents to be a defrauder, and the other to be
defrauded. Does the agreement make wrong right?"
"I think it does, because the gamblers have a right to make what
agreement they please, as it is between themselves."
"Hold there, Dick. Suppose that the poor man loses. Is it then between
themselves? Does not the rich gambler walk away with the money that was
due to the poor one's butcher, baker, brewer, etcetera?"
"But the rich one did not know that. It is not his fault."
"That does not free the poor gambler from the dishonourable act of
risking money which was not his own; and do you really think that if the
rich one did know it he would return the money? I think not. The
history of gambling does not point to many, if any, such cases of
self-sacrifice. The truth is that selfishness in its meanest form is at
the bottom of all gambling, though many gamblers may not quite see the
fact. I want your money. I am too proud to ask it. I dare not demand
it. I cannot cajole you out of it. I will not rob you. You are
precisely in the same mind that I am. Come, let us resort to a trick,
let us make an arrangement whereby one of us at least shall gain his
sneaking, nefarious, unjust end, and we will, anyhow, have the
excitement of leaving to chance which of us is to be the lucky man.
Chance and luck! Dick Sharp, there is no such condition as chance or
luck. It is as surely fixed in the mind of God which gambler is to gain
and which to lose as it is that the morrow shall follow to-day."
"My dear Blunt, I had no idea you were such a fatalist," said Sharp in
surprise.
"I am not a fatalist in the sense you mean," returned his friend.
"Everything has been fixed from the beginning."
"Is not that fatalism of the most pronounced nature, Tom?"
"You don't seem to see that, among other fixtures, it was fixed that
free-will should be given to man, and with it the right as well as the
power to fix many things for himself, also the responsibility. Without
free-will we could have had no responsibility. The mere fact that God
of course _knew_ what each man would will, did not alter the fixed
arrangement that man has been left perfectly free to will as he pleases.
I do not say that man is free to _do_ as he pleases. Sometimes the
doing is permitted; sometimes it is interfered with--never the willing.
That is always and for ever free. Gamblers use their free-wills, often
to their own great damage and ruin; just as good men use their
free-wills to their great advantage and happiness. In both cases they
make free use of the free-wills that have been bestowed on them."
"Then I suppose that you consider gambling, even to the smallest extent,
to be sin?"
"I do."
"Under which of the ten commandments does it fall?"
"`Thou shalt not covet.'"