In the United States we had no internal frictions which threatened us so much as rum and gambling.  In Brooklyn we never ceased bombarding these rebellious agents of war on the character of young men.  Coney Island was once a beautiful place, but in the five years since that time, when it was a garden by the sea, the races at Brighton Beach and Sheepshead Bay had been established.  In New York and Brooklyn pool rooms were open for betting on these races.  In ten years’ time I predicted that no decent man or woman would be able to visit Coney Island.  The evil was stupendous, and the subject of Coney Island could no longer be neglected in the pulpit.

Betting was a new-fashioned sort of vice in America in 1885; it was just becoming a licensed relaxation for young boys.  As the years went on, it has grown to great distinction in all forms of American life, but it was yet only at its starting point in this year.  Looking over an address I made on this subject, I find this statement: 

“What a spectacle when, at Saratoga, or at Long Branch, or at Brighton Beach, the horses stop, and in a flash $50,000 or $100,000 change hands—­multitudes ruined by losses, others, ruined by winnings.”  Many years afterwards the money involved in racing was in the millions; but in 1885, $100,000 was still a good bit.  There were three kinds of betting at the horse races then—­by auction pools, by French mutuals, and by what is called bookmaking—­all of these methods controlled “for a consideration.”  The pool seller deducted three or five per cent. from the winning bet (incidentally “ringing up” more tickets than were sold on the winning horse), while the bookmaker, for special inducement, would scratch any horse in the race.  The jockey also, for a consideration, would slacken speed to allow a prearranged winner to walk in, while the judges on the stand turned their backs.

It was just a swindling trust.  And yet, these race tracks on a fine afternoon were crowded with intelligent men of good standing in the community, and frequently the parasols of the ladies gave colour and brilliancy to the scene.  Our most beautiful watering places were all but destroyed by the race tracks.  To stop all this was like turning back the ocean tides, so regular became the habit of gambling, of betting, of being legally swindled in America.  No one was interested in the evils of life.  We were on the frontier of a greater America, a greater waste of money, a greater paradise of pleasure.

Some notice was taken of General Grant’s malady, mysteriously pronounced incurable.  The bulletins informed us that his life might last a week, a day, an hour—­and still the famous old warrior kept getting better.  One moment Grant was dying, the next he was dining heartily at his own dinner table.  This was one of the mysteries of the period.  Personally, I believe the prayers of the Church kept him alive.