“Whoever gains, some one must lose; you either receive or inflict a loss.”
“I care little about the money,” cried Charles; “it is the feeling of excitement that I enjoy.”
“And it is in this very feeling that the danger lies. There need be no sin in simply playing a game. I have heard that good Mr. Searle likes his quiet whist, and no doubt he enjoys it with an easy conscience; but when it is not in the game, but in the gambling, that the pleasure is found—when the interest is excited, not by exercise of skill, but by the chance of a lucky deal—oh, Charles, is it not a kind of intoxication which the young Pilgrim especially is bound to shun?”
“There is a sort of intoxication in all sorts of worldly excitement, I think,” observed Charles. “The expectation of a ball intoxicates my cousin; the chances of an election, her father; great heroes are intoxicated by a desire for conquest. What was Napoleon but a mighty gambler?”
“Yes,” subjoined Ernest; “one who played for kingdoms, and gambled away crown, liberty, and all.”
“Well, to me there is something great and animating in the idea of putting it ‘to the touch, to gain or lose it all.’”
“If that be your feeling, Charles,” exclaimed Fontonore, “you are one who should never touch a card. There is the fuel ready in your heart. Oh, beware of letting a spark fall upon it! How can you pray not to be led into temptation, without mocking the great Being whom you address, if you, with your eyes open, seek the company and the amusements which you know in themselves to be temptation? You would be as one who, because the day was fair and the water inviting, would venture in a boat close to a dangerous whirlpool, and, while he felt the strong current drawing him in, would content himself with praying for some wind from heaven to save him from the peril into which he had thrown himself.”
“The difference here,” observed Charles, “is, that I can stop when I like.”
“Every gambler begins by thinking that he can stop when he likes, till he finds that habit and passion are too strong to be mastered. Oh, Charley! my Charley!” continued Ernest, with emotion, “much as I love you, my own only brother, I had rather lose you—rather see you laid in your grave, than living the life of a gambler!”