IT is curious to notice the various phases through which games of skill pass, according as their principles are more thoroughly comprehended, and those who study them become more and more expert in their practice. In their infancy they offer unbounded scope for individual enterprise and freedom of action; but by degrees they become surrounded with restraints and restrictions, till at length they degenerate into mere exercise of routine, and the player is not called upon to exercise his inventiveness in striking out new paths for himself, but is bound to follow the paths which custom has prescribed as the only one proper to be taken under the circumstances. Take modern whist, and consider how its tendency is more and more to restrict any display of dash or vigorous originality on the part of the player, and to tie him down to a rigid code.
In former days there was some scope for brilliancy at whist; but now a strong memory, a trained habit of observation, and a sedulous attention to the rapidly increasing number of prearranged signals are the only qualities desired in a partner, and woe betide him if he dares to venture out of the beaten track. Take chess, also, and though the combinations at chess are so inexhaustible that it is impossible to stifle altogether the efforts of individual genius, yet those efforts must be strictly reserved for an advanced stage of the contest. No one can hope to excel at chess who has not read and remembered a vast amount of bookwork; and the man who has read and remembered the most will start with the most chances in his favour. The great American player, Morphy, laid the foundation for his success by committing to memory every published variation of all the openings as well as the principal published games of the old masters. He had genius also of the highest order, but he never allowed his genius to run away with him. He played according to the strictest methodical rule, and only when his antagonist would no longer follow the books did he give the rein to his own powers. It is a common thing now for two well-matched players to name their opening, and take the first ten or twelve moves for granted, it being assumed that neither would deviate from the accepted course of the game up to that point. Hence it is easy to see that a man who only knew by heart the first six moves of the opening would have little or no chance with the man who knew double that number, and it becomes apparent that reading and memory are not only indispensable, but will go a good way to make up for lack of natural aptitude.
Similar causes have operated to affect the game of billiards also, though billiards is an exercise of mechanical rather than of mental skill. Custom and habit have shaped the game so as to leave as few openings as possible for exceptional brilliancy of conception and execution, and to make success certain for the player who can plod unwearyingly and unerringly through a restricted number of routine strokes. It is curious that though the game of billiards is nominally played with three balls, the object of the great masters of the game seems to have been to ignore the third ball, and to get through the contest with two only.
In the old days when Kentfield was champion and losing hazards were in vogue, middle-pocket breaks were the all-in-all; and the great Brighton player, who was remarkable for knowledge of strength and delicacy of touch, would win game after game without ever bringing the three balls into play. Thereafter a new generation arose which discovered the superior powers of the spot stroke, and losing hazards forthwith went out of fashion. The principle of using two balls only instead of three was the same, but as the spot-stroke break is played on a much more limited area of the table than a middle-pocket break, it is proportionately easier of accomplishment and more prolific of results. The achievements of the professors of the spot-stroke threw all the performances of their predecessors into the shade, and breaks were made which would never have entered into the imagination of players of the old school. The new game consisted simply in holeing your adversary's ball, in getting position for the spot, and then in running the red ball into the corner pockets fifty or a hundred times with unerring precision. The spot-stroke carried all before it, yet nothing could be more monotonous or more uninteresting to spectators. After a time even the professionals wearied of it, and perhaps felt a consciousness that billiards and single pool were not altogether one and the same game. It was agreed that in championship matches tables should be used which would not admit of the spot-stroke being played, and accordingly during the last few years the game has been entering on a new phase. The spot-stroke is not to be done on tables with small pockets; there seems no disposition to return to the losing-hazard game; and cannons now are more played than anything else in the championship matches-not the clashing all-round cannons in which the amateur delights, but little gentle dribbling strokes, which do their work, and leave some more to be done. When the supply of these fails, the correct thing to do nowadays is to hole the white and give a miss in baulk. This was once considered a mean game, but experience has shown that meanness is not unfrequently the parent of safety.
Well, all these different styles of play have yet this common characteristic, that the player, if he wishes to succeed, must confine himself to a particular stroke, or a selection of strokes, and must indulge himself in no flights of inventiveness or feats of execution. Rigid self-restraint is the very essence of professional billiards, and therefore the professional game is much less interesting to watch than the amateur. The amateur tries at everything, and sometimes succeeds; the professional tries at very few things, and never misses. The amateur amuses himself, and occasionally delights the spectators by brilliant tours de force; the professional makes strokes that a child could do, and somehow manages to leave himself a constant supply of them. The necessity of the case compels the professional to adopt this cramped style of play, for he knows full well that if he makes one miss, or leaves one opening, defeat stares him in the face. On the other hand, the amateur can indulge in his fancy, for though he miss half his strokes, his adversary will probably do likewise, and he will have abundant opportunities to recover his advantage. Hence the amateur plays a game full of dash, of ups and downs, of uncertainty, but of amusement also; while the professional plods along with mechanical precision, and arrives at the desired goal as a matter of course. Constant practice, steady nerves, a clear, but not necessarily a quick sight, a firm hand, and a delicate touch, are the great requisites for a first-class professional billiard player. It is wonderful how much the last qualification has to do with success or failure, and how fitful it is in its visitations. A great bowler once said that he could always tell in the morning whether his bowling would be destructive or not by taking the ball in his fingers and holding it for a moment. It is the same with billiards. Sometimes the sensation of touch is so delicate that you can make your cue execute almost anything you may command; and at other times it lies in your hands like a dead weight, and you can impart to it neither life nor vigour.
A word in conclusion as to treatises on billiards. These may be pleasant reading enough for some tastes, and the illustrations are often highly ingenious; but, as practical instructors to the inexperienced, they are worse than useless. As well could a man learn skating or music by reading a description of the most approved skates or a life of Beethoven as learn billiards by reading an illustrative narrative of some great breaks of Roberts or Cook. And if the tyro attempts to put in practice the lessons he has laboriously learned, the consequences are often disastrous. In the effort to hit his ball high up with side he will probably miss it altogether, and leave his opponent a handsome break. In the effort to carry out the instructions of his teacher and strike with "a full free cue," he will not unlikely knock the tip off the said cue; and if he ventures yet further, and attempts "the quick short stab," which is so strongly recommended in certain emergencies, he will very probably stab the cloth with such effect as to cut it, and will have to pay the duffer's fine of one guinea. Holding the cue till you feel accustomed to it, and can make hand and eye work together in harmony, knocking the balls about till you become familiar with the angles of the table and the different motions communicated by different ways of striking, and diligently watching the play of greater proficients than yourself, will teach a beginner more than all the books in the world. After a certain advance has been made, and the player has acquired a moderate command over the instruments of the game, books may come in advantageously, and some useful hints may be gleaned from their pages. But we doubt whether good players take much notice of them, and for those who are just beginning they are a delusion and a snare.