Whist, it seems to me, is an affair of eyes, memory, and calculative
ratiocination. As to eyes, I have a private theory that mine are
bewitched. It is not mere short sight. At school and college I have
seen Greek words on the printed page, and translated them correctly,
and come to grief, because these words, on inspection, were somehow
not there. Explain this I cannot, but it is a fact. The same with
Whist; I see spades where clubs are, and diamonds for hearts, and a
cold world accuses me of revoking and of carelessness, but it is _not
_ carelessness. It is something gone askew in phenomena. Thus, when
I am a witness as to facts in a trial, perjury is the softest word
for my testimony, so the Court thinks, because the Court is blessed
with the usual relations between objective facts, and subjective
impressions. I admit that I am less fortunate, but when I try to go
into this, I am interrupted. However, this is why I revoke.
[Illustration]
Then as to memory, I have none, for cards. It is extremely difficult,
indeed impossible, to recall who played what, after the cards are once
out of sight. I could tell you, like the man in the story, that such
and such a statement is on the ninety sixth page of the fifth volume
of GIBBON, the page on the left, half-way down; useless things of that
sort I remember: cards, not. As to calculation and inferences, I give
it up. I just first play out all my kings, then all my aces, I lead
trumps, if I have a bunch of them, and then it is my partner's turn
to make his little points. I return his lead when I happen to think
of it, which is not often. That is all _I_ have to confess, but I
have a friend, a brilliant player _I_ call him, and he permits me to
contribute his experiences, as mine are short and simple. To my mind,
Whist would not be a bad game, if the element of skill were excluded;
but give me Roulette. If foreign ladies would not snatch up my
winnings, I should be a master at Roulette, where genius is really
served, for I play on inspiration merely. But let me turn to the
confessions of my friend, my Mentor, I may call him, a man who is a
Member of the Burlington itself, one who has had losses, go to! Hear
him speak:--
"I have always sympathised," he says, "with _Mr. Pickwick_, in regard
to his experiences at Whist; that is to say, his experience on the
second occasion narrated in his history. The first time, it will be
remembered, all went well, when, owing to unfortunate lapses on the
part of 'the criminal Miller,' who omitted to 'trump the diamond'
and subsequently revoked, he and the fat gentleman were worsted in an
encounter with _Mr. Wardle's_ mother and the immortal hero.
"But at Bath there was a different tale to tell, the _Dowager Lady
Snuphanuph_ and _Mrs. Colonel Wugsby_, proved too able for him and
_Miss Bolo_, who when he played a wrong card, which, like me, he
probably did every other time, looked a small armoury of daggers,
and subsequently in a beautiful instance of the figure known to the
grammarian as Hendiadys, went home in tears and a Sedan chair."
Bearing in mind the advice attributed to TALLEYRAND, I have
conscientiously endeavoured to become a Whist-player; but it is
becoming increasingly obvious to me, that owing to the malison
pronounced at my birth, my room is generally preferred to my company.
And yet I have studied the subject according to my lights. Every
instance of Whist in fiction which comes under my notice receives my
undivided attention, and when I read Miss BROUGHTON, such a sentence
as, "I suppose," she said, "that it's the right thing to play out all
one's aces first? Her partner conscientiously endeavoured to veil the
expression of extreme dissent which this proposition called forth,
and with such success that the ace of hearts instantly and confidently
followed his brother."
When I read hints like these, I garner them up for my own future use.
I have pored over every known text-book on the subject, from MATTHEWS
and HOYLE to CAVENDISH. I once went so far as to learn the proper
leads by rote, forgetting them all within a week; and owing to my
inveterate habit of endeavouring to justify the most flagitious acts
by a supposed reference to authority, have earned for myself the name
of "Pole."
There are some with whom I play, who contrive to make me feel more at
my ease than do others, and even look upon me in virtue of my playing
with "those men at the Club" as one having authority; for among
the blind the one-eyed man is king. There is my Mother-in-law for
instance, now I really enjoy a rubber with _her_. We sit down after
dinner at a table scant of cloth, and either much too small or so
inconveniently large that I cannot see the trump at the other end of
it. She usually begins operations by misdealing, which is precisely
what always happens to me with a new pack; nor do I yet understand
how it is that the expert manages to deal at about sixty miles an hour
without a mistake, whereas when my turn comes every other card seems
to get stuck to its neighbour by a very superior kind of glue, so that
they all come out in batches of twos and threes as it were, instead of
one by one.
But when the deal has come right, her next step is to sort her cards,
which she does by placing all her trumps apart from the others between
her third and fourth fingers; I can thus tell how many she has, and am
further assisted by her generally dropping one or two in the process
face upwards on the table. This would be punishable at the Club; but
as she would consider it "mean" were any allusions made to it, nothing
happens. Towards the end of the hand her attention is apt to wander,
and owing to her abstraction play comes to a dead halt. When a hint
is offered that we are waiting for her, with prompt and business-like
alacrity but regardless of the rigorous formula, "Place your cards,
please," she will say, "Who led a spade?" there being at the time a
club, a heart, and a diamond on the table. Then, being the only one
who has a card of the leader's suit left, she revokes but is not found
out. When she leads out of turn, as happens on an average four or
five times every rubber, if I am against her, I call a suit from her
partner, upon which she says, flaring up, "Is _that_ the way you play
at the Club? 'Cheats never thrive.'" Nor do we, for the simple reason,
that she seldom holds less than three honours in each suit, and from
five to six trumps besides!
This, as I said, is the sort of Whist I rather enjoy; but when it
comes to playing in sober earnest at the Club, there is a different
tale to tell.
(_This different tale will be told in the Duffer's next._)
* * * * *
"AIRY FAIRY LILLY UN!"--One day last week, MR. W.S. LILLY--i.e.
W. "SHIBBOLETHS" LILLY--delivered an excellent lecture on the
Papal-Italian question, and although at Birmingham, it was by no means
a brummagem discourse. But to quote the immortal ballad of _Billy
Taylor_, "When the Captain he come for to hear on't, He werry much
applauded what she'd done," and, to apply the lines to the present
instance, "When the POPE he comes for to hear on't," _will_ he "werry
much applaud," the opinions honestly and courteously enough expressed
in this lecture? By the way, "LEO and the Lilly" would make a fine
subject for a historical cartoon. The learned Lecturer took care to
observe, with all the true modesty of the humble flower from which
his name is derived, that he spoke only the opinion of a party, which
party, whether small, considerable, or large, his audience could judge
for themselves with the unclothed optic, as the party in question was,
not to put too fine a point on it, Himself.
* * * * *
[Illustration: DANCING MEN.
"WHAT A CHARMING WALTZ THEY'RE PLAYING UPSTAIRS. (MORE CHAMPAGNE,
WAITER. THANKS!)"
"I'VE ONLY JUST COME--NOT BEEN UPSTAIRS YET. ONE HEARS THE MUSIC SO
MUCH BETTER DOWN HERE. (COLD CUTLET, PLEASE, AND SALAD. THANKS!)"]
* * * * *
"A LITTLE HOLIDAY!"
[It is proposed that 450,000 colliers belonging to the Miners'
Federation should cease work for a week or a fortnight. This,
it is said, is regarded as an "amicable" Strike, not against
the Masters, but to raise the price of coal by producing an
artificial scarcity, and thus avoiding a threatened reduction
of wages consequent upon over-production. This the Miners
call, "Going on Play."]
_Out-of-Worker to Out-on-Player_:--
Who talks of "Solidarity of Labour,"--
A favourite shibboleth in these our days?--
To recognise one's duty to one's neighbour
Is that which all--in theory--will praise.
And Unions are upheld, and "Blacklegs" scouted--
Friends of Fraternity _their_ heads must break
To prove their loyal brotherhood undoubted!--
But _here_ there seems to be some slight mistake.
Going on Play, mate, you of the broad shoulders?
Take holiday awhile from pick and lamp?
Well your hard toil impresses all beholders,
Sweating amidst black seams and choking "damp."
A "holiday," for rest and recreation,
None would begrudge you. But at the expense
Of every other worker in the nation?
I don't quite see it! Maybe I am dense.
A "friendly" Strike, you call it; "amicable"!
Nice sounding words! Strikes mostly mean hot war.
But in to-day's wild Socialistic Babel
Blest if I always know just where we are.
But if I'm out of work, or out of fuel,
Me and a many thousand like me, mate,
Your "friendly" conflict seems a _leetle_ cruel
To us, with idle hands or empty grate.
I'd like to taste the sweets of "solidarity"
In this connection; so would my pale friend;
He's a poor Clerk. I fancy human charity,
_All round_, a lot of bitter strife would end;
And if _that_'s "solidarity," I'm for it;
But in your "play" _are_ you considering _us_?
No need for snivelling bunkum; I abhor it;
But does fraternity shape itself _thus_?
Must fight for your own hand? Oh, ah! precisely.
Only that's ISHMAEL, after all, right out.
Maybe that for yourself you're acting wisely,--
Though even that seems open to some doubt,--
But if your self-advancement means a smasher
To mill-hand, poor mechanic, labourer, clerk,
Without a fire to fry his slender "rasher,"
Fraternity's outlook still looks rather dark.
With Coal two bob a hundred, and still rising,
Poor folk who buy it by the fourteen pound,
(Dukes at St. James's Hall, this sounds surprising,
But if you'd understand it, just look round!)
Dockers and Brickies, charwomen and "childer,"
With such small deer, mate, as my friend and me,
Find one more "Social Question" to bewilder
The small brains left us by chill poverty.
Fighting _our_ battle? Humph! A rather roundabout
Way of so doing! P'r'aps your Masters, too,
Would claim the same--there _are_ such Bosses found about;
Westminsters, Liveseys, Norwoods, and that crew,
All for our good, not only Strike-Committees,
But Rate-payers' Defence Leagues, and the like!
Oh, the poor Propertied Classes! How one pities
Those victims of the School Board, Council, Strike!
If Miners and Mine-Owners pull together
To raise the price of Coal--well, it may suit
Both them and you. But, in this bitter weather,
Your "Solidarity" brings _us_ bitter fruit.
When our pinched fire dies down to its last ember,
The picture of you "making holiday" thus
Won't warm our wives and kids. Strike!--but remember
That what is "Play" to you means death to us!
* * * * *
A POSER FOR MR. WEATHERBY.--Mrs. RAM is not in the least astonished at
its being said that certain horses turn out "regular flyers," because,
she says, "she has often heard of mares' nests."
* * * * *
"MINER PREMISES."--In the Coal Districts.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "A LITTLE HOLIDAY!!"
WORKING-MAN AND } "AH! IT'S ALL VERY WELL,--BUT WHAT'S _PLAY_
POOR CLERK. } TO _YOU_ IS _DEATH_ TO _US_."
* * * * *