"A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game." This was the celebrated wish of old Sarah Battle (now with God), who, next to her devotions, loved a good game of Whist.
She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, your half-and-half players, who have no objection to take a hand if you want one to make up a rubber; who affirm that they have no pleasure in winning; that they like to win one game and lose another; that they can while away an hour very agreeably at a card-table, but are indifferent whether they play or not; and will desire an adversary who has slipped a wrong card to take it up and play another. These insufferable triflers are the curse of a table. One of these flies will spoil a whole pot.
Of such, it may be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing at them.
Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She detested them from her heart and soul, and would not, save upon a striking emergency, willingly seat herself at the same table with them.
She loved a thorough-paced partner, a determined enemy. She took and gave no concessions. She hated favours. She never made a revoke nor ever passed it over in her adversary without exacting the utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight, cut and thrust.
She held not her good sword (her cards) like a dancer. She sate bolt upright, and neither showed you her cards nor desired to see yours.
All people have their blind side, their superstitions; and I have heard her declare under the rose that hearts were her favourite suit.
I never in my life (and I knew Sarah Battle many of the last years of it) saw her take out her snuff-box when it was her turn to play, or snuff a candle in the middle of the game, or ring for a servant till it was fairly over. She never introduced or connived at miscellaneous conversation during its process.
As she emphatically observed, cards were cards; and if I ever saw unmingled distaste in her fine last-century countenance, it was at the airs of a young gentleman of a literary turn who had been with difficulty persuaded to take a hand, and who, in his excess of candour, declared that he thought there was no harm in unbending the mind now and then, after serious studies, in recreations of that kind!
She could not bear to have her noble occupation, to which she wound up her faculties, considered in that light. It was her business, her duty: the thing she came into the world to do—and she did it. She unbent her mind afterwards over a book.