IF we only live long enough we all pass through at least three
stages—one authority says seven;—we grow, we attain our prime, we
decay; and Whist, apparently, is not exempt from the common lot.
Somewhat obscure in its origin, it gradually developed, it arrived
at its zenith, then began to go down hill, and became the piteous
spectacle we now see, until, flying from the whist-room as from a
pest-house, the players are betaking themselves in shoals to other and
unholy games.
There is an opinion that Whist is at the present moment so exceedingly
popular that it is fast becoming a serious rival to afternoon tea, and
this, so far from being inconsistent with my original statement, rather
strengthens it; for it is quite possible that a certain percentage of
the more reputable refugees from the clubs, averse to gambling, may
have sought—and I hope I may add, found—consolation in the family bosom
and the domestic rubber.
The golden age of Whist lasted from the time when Cavendish arranged
in a systematic form his selections from the wisdom of our ancestors,
until the death of Mr. Clay, twelve years ago; then the age of wood
began, and if the whole subsequent literature of Whist had been
publicly burnt by the common hangman, including _nostri farrago
libelli_, it would have been an unmixed boon; so greatly has the evil
preponderated over the good.