第118章

Brown has won two; Robinson lurks away to his family house and (mayhap indignant) Mrs.R.Hours of evening, night, morning, have passed away whilst they have been waging this sixpenny battle.What is the loss of four pounds to Jones, the gain of two to Brown? B.

is, perhaps, so rich that two pounds more or less are as naught to him; J.is so hopelessly involved that to win four pounds cannot benefit his creditors, or alter his condition; but they play for that stake: they put forward their best energies: they ruff, finesse (what are the technical words, and how do I know?) It is but a sixpenny game if you like; but they want to win it.So as regards my friend yonder with the hat.He stakes his money: he wishes to win the game, not the hat merely.I am not prepared to say that he is not inspired by a noble ambition.Caesar wished to be first in a village.If first of a hundred yokels, why not first of two? And my friend the old-clothes'-man wishes to win his game, as well as to turn his little sixpence.

Suppose in the game of life--and it is but a twopenny game after all--you are equally eager of winning.Shall you be ashamed of your ambition, or glory in it? There are games, too, which are becoming to particular periods of life.I remember in the days of our youth, when my friend Arthur Bowler was an eminent cricketer.Slim, swift, strong, well-built, he presented a goodly appearance on the ground in his flannel uniform.Militasti non sine gloria, Bowler my boy!

Hush! We tell no tales.Mum is the word.Yonder comes Chancy his son.Now Chancy his son has taken the field and is famous among the eleven of his school.Bowler senior, with his capacious waistcoat, &c., waddling after a ball, would present an absurd object, whereas it does the eyes good to see Bowler junior scouring the plain--a young exemplar of joyful health, vigor, activity.The old boy wisely contents himself with amusements more becoming his age and waist; takes his sober ride; visits his farm soberly--busies himself about his pigs, his ploughing, his peaches, or what not! Very small routinier amusements interest him; and (thank goodness!) nature provides very kindly for kindly-disposed fogies.We relish those things which we scorned in our lusty youth.I see the young folks of an evening kindling and glowing over their delicious novels.Ilook up and watch the eager eye flashing down the page, being, for my part, perfectly contented with my twaddling old volume of "Howel's Letters," or the Gentleman's Magazine.I am actually arrived at such a calm frame of mind that I like batter-pudding.Inever should have believed it possible; but it is so.Yet a little while, and I may relish water-gruel.It will be the age of mon lait de poule et mon bonnet de nuit.And then--the cotton extinguisher is pulled over the old noddle, and the little flame of life is popped out.

Don't you know elderly people who make learned notes in Army Lists, Peerages, and the like? This is the batter-pudding, water-gruel of old age.The worn-out old digestion does not care for stronger food.Formerly it could swallow twelve-hours' tough reading, and digest an encyclopaedia.

If I had children to educate, I would, at ten or twelve years of age, have a professor, or professoress, of whist for them, and cause them to be well grounded in that great and useful game.You cannot learn it well when you are old, any more than you can learn dancing or billiards.In our house at home we youngsters did not play whist because we were dear obedient children, and the elders said playing at cards was "a waste of time." A waste of time, my good people!

Allons! What do elderly home-keeping people do of a night after dinner? Darby gets his newspaper; my dear Joan her Missionary Magazine or her volume of Cumming's Sermons--and don't you know what ensues? Over the arm of Darby's arm-chair the paper flutters to the ground unheeded, and he performs the trumpet obligato que vous savez on his old nose.My dear old Joan's head nods over her sermon (awakening though the doctrine may be).Ding, ding, ding: can that be ten o'clock? It is time to send the servants to bed, my dear--and to bed master and mistress go too.But they have not wasted their time playing at cards.Oh, no! I belong to a Club where there is whist of a night, and not a little amusing is it to hear Brown speak of Thompson's play, and vice versa.But there is one man--Greatorex let us call him--who is the acknowledged captain and primus of all the whist-players.We all secretly admire him.I, for my part, watch him in private life, hearken to what he says, note what he orders for dinner, and have that feeling of awe for him that I used to have as a boy for the cock of the school.Not play at whist? "Quelle triste vieillesse vous vous preparez!" were the words of the great and good Bishop of Autun.I can't.It is too late now.Too late! too late! Ah! humiliating confession! That joy might have been clutched, but the life-stream has swept us by it--the swift life-stream rushing to the nearing sea.Too late! too late! Twentystone my boy! when you read in the papers "Valse a deux temps," and all the fashionable dances taught to adults by "Miss Lightfoots," don't you feel that you would like to go in and learn?

Ah, it is too late! You have passed the choreas, Master Twentystone, and the young people are dancing without you.