"Did he squint?" asked Priscilla. "I didn't notice it."

Before dinner I had the good fortune to catch three trout, averaging half a pound, in the pool below the Castle; and knocked at Priscilla's door on my way to my bedroom.

Her maid opened the door, a smug, silent-footed girl whom I detested,

"Is that you?" said Priscilla. "Caught anything? I suppose you haven't got wet boots on?"

She was sitting at her dressingtable, doing her hair. The pink-shaded light fell on tortoiseshell brushes and feminine fittings, and the air was fragrant with Priscilla's favorite and peculiar perfume. I stood in front of the fire and recounted my exploits.

"By the way," I added, "I've been thinking about Lawton. "She could look after your chicken farm, that you're always talking about."

"Oh, I'm not going to have her down there," said Priscilla calmly, as she daintily patted and pulled her curls into the requisite positions. "I've given up that idea."

"But I thought—”

"It wouldn't work, my dear. That boy squints."

"But, my dear girl, you yourself said

"Never mind what I said. I didn't mean it. Won't you be late for dinner if you don't go to dress?"

"Out of sight, out of mind," I said crossly.

"It isn't that," said Priscilla. "You don't understand."

For the next three weeks the existence of Mrs. Grant's cross-eyed son worried Priscilla incessantly. It was one of the difficulties; there were others which seemed to prohibit any effort to help the poor woman. Henrickson had no cottage vacant on the estate, and he objected strongly to the presence of children in the cottages. "If they work," he said, "they gossip: LIVING AGE. VOL. LVI. 2956

if they are only kids, they play about the lodge and look dirty." It is, of course, well established that I do not understand Priscilla, but I could see the fire that was raging in her mind, and was mischievous enough to add fuel to it. She wanted to help Lawton, and she didn't want to undertake responsibilities. However, at last, after three weeks, and after my repeated efforts to persuade her, she gave in. She declared that she would tolerate the squinting boy as long as she did not see him in the gardens. He must go to school, she said, or have an operation or something.

Priscilla has a very good heart. I was delighted by her determination.

We drove into the town, loaded up with presents for Lawton, and toys from my nephews and nieces for the children. I stopped at the fishing-tackle shop while Priscilla drove on to Graham Street, where I was to join her, after giving her time to arrange for Lawton's removal as soon as a cottage or lodge should be vacant.

The shopman, who had a brisk kindly manner and a gray moustache, was glad to see me. He was also glad to hear that I had caught some fish, and needed more flies.

"Coachman, sir? Yes, a very good fly when the sun has just set."

He extracted some from a large book, and dexterously unwound them. "You remember, sir"-he counted out six flies carefully-"that Mrs. Grant who was in here the other day, same time as you? Lady in black, with the box you so kindly—”

"Yes, certainly. I went to see her, and found that she was my sister's old maid. It was a queer coincidence."

"So I hear, sir, so I hear. A very happy coincidence." He wound up my six flies and placed them in an envelope. "I'm sure that you will be interested to hear news of her." "My sister has just gone round to

see her, and I'm going in a minute."

"Indeed, sir? Yes." He folded up his Coachmen and replaced them in the big book. "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to Mrs. Henrickson for all her kindness, and to you too, sir. I hope that Mrs. Grant has come to the end of her troubles."

I agreed, slightly puzzled.

"The fact is, sir," he continued, evidently bringing himself with an effort to the point, "that Mrs. Grant and I are hoping to-in fact, to get married shortly."

It was delightful-it was a suThe Cornhill Magazine.

premely simple solution of the situation. I congratulated him warmly.

"Yes, sir," he said, "it came into my head when you left the shop the other day. I was sorry to lose that silver tea-service."

Ten minutes later I was in Graham Street, and just stayed a minute to speak to Lawton, whose face was changed out of all recognition by a look of ineffable happiness and contentment. Then Priscilla dragged me away.

"Oh, my dear," she said, when we were out of ear-shot, "what a relief! But you'll never understand."

Christopher Stone,

If you look at the word "sport" in the dictionary, you will find it explained somewhat after this fashion: "Amusement, enjoyment, diversion, fun." Whether it be pursued under a roof or in the open air, its essence is and should be pleasure and delight. The fierce egoism of victory should be no more than an incident. Sport for sport's sake is the one and only excuse which the amateur can bring forward for the self-denial of laborious days. The mere taint of professionalism is, and will always be, abhorrent to English athletes. The best test of a sportsman is that he should not grudge another the triumph of victory. Such, indeed, has always been the spirit of our countrymen, and if America and Sweden are proving their superiority in what are foolishly called the "Olym pic Games," we should take our defeats like men and refrain rigidly from excuse and explanation.

It is not in this light that the Americans regard athletics. The team which represented the United States at Stockholm was "run on business lines." It was, to use its own lingo, "out to win." Mere sport is a superstition,

which it did not harbor in its mind for a moment. The steamer which brought it to Sweden was chartered at enormous expense. A Government grant made the journey of its heroes easy and comfortable. Private munificence came to the aid of a generous Government, and nothing was spared which money and forethought might compass to ensure success. In the train of the heroes came a vast army of "rooters," a peculiar adjunct to athleticism happily unknown among Englishmen. We ourselves saw them four years ago at the Stadium of the White City, and do not cherish a pleasant memory of their antics. It is the business of the "rooters" to encourage their own champions, and to prove their disgust at every success that is not won under the stars and stripes. To this end they are armed with tin trumpets and unseemly things called "college yells." From sunset to sundown they shout "rah," "rah," and when off duty they may be recognized by the flags which they wave and the foolish badges which they wear in their button-holes. That they deprive sport of its amenity matters not to them. They

see in sport nothing but a "serious proposition." The business of their heroes is not to amuse themselves, but to win; not to delight in their strength and prowess, but to show that these United States can whip the universe. And, as they count up their gains, they regard lightly the outrage committed upon the traditions of the runningpath. "Track tactics" are the best proof of cleverness, and probably nothing pleased them better in the contest of four years ago than the race wherein they punched an arrogant competitor in the ribs.

In other words, those who would win at the Olympic Games, we are told, must learn all the lessons of professionalism. They must not pursue their sport with the cheerful joyousness of amateurs. They must not let running and jumping be the relaxations of a busy life. They must be runners and jumpers and nothing else. They must listen to no music save the gramaphone of their trainer. They must obey a new code of morals and manners, the first article in which is that it is a crime to be excelled by any man of any nation other than your own. The new code will not make for international comity. It will do nothing to encourage sport. But it will give plenty of work to the "rooters," and it will elevate sharp practice to the highest place among the virtues.

For our part, we cannot deplore the failure of our English athletes, concerning which so much has been said by exultant Americans. Our organization may be bad; if it be so, it does not matter. Our system of training may be devised by amateurs; perhaps it is none the worse for that. At any rate, we travel across the seas to do our best and to watch the best of others. Even if we do not win, we shall have attained our end. But, object our critics, this is not enough. The failure of England in athletic

sports, it is said, is a clear proof of degeneracy. We have taught the trick of running and jumping to others, and have instantly fallen behind ourselves. What does it matter, so long as we have avoided the pit of professionalism? It matters everything, says the noisy press of New York. Henceforth England is a back number in the world's history. If our champions cannot run faster and jump farther than the champions of other countries, she is "down and out" for ever. Poor England! Still poorer Germany, who has not given a much better account of herself than Italy and Greece!

The fact that the Americans lead in the Olympic Games proves neither the decadence of English courage nor the supremacy of American wisdom. It is a triumph of professionalism, and of professionalism alone. It proves that at a given moment America has trained more efficient athletes than any other part of the globe-proves that, and no more. He who wins an Olympic prize returns to America what is far greater than a hero-"a made man." He gets a post as trainer, and turns out other victors successful as himself. And it is precisely this spirit of professionalism, this lust to win, which we hope will never be introduced into Great Britain. Wherever professionalism has flourished there has been an end of sport. We all remember the curse which the idle athletes brought upon Athens. Euripides describes them, "lustrous in gold, like living statues decking the streets"; and when old age came upon them "they fell and perished like a threadbare coat." They were the worst citizens, for they knew neither how to fight nor how to give counsel; and they would not work, because they thought that he who had won a prize should live for ever at the public expense. So the Olympic Games, once blessed by God, fell into professionalism and dis

repute. And if a better wisdom do not prevail, if we do not all praise a great feat nobly done, then the meetings called Olympic to-day will bring nothing but bad blood and misunderstanding to the world.

A better wisdom is not likely to prevail. Whatever happens, the English athlete is belabored. Some years ago, in a moment of stress, we were reproached, and justly reproached, with an undue worship of "flannelled fools" and "muddied oafs." To-day the reproof hurled at the head of the nation is reversed. Our fools wear their flannels with too little zeal; our oafs are not sufficiently muddied. It is not difficult to see who is in the right of it. If Englishmen are wise, they will turn a deaf ear to their American critics. We hope sincerely that the day will never come when we shall estimate athletic prowess in pounds, shillings, and pence, when we shall rely upon Government grants for the training of our champions. That is not our way. We play our games with skill and energy, even though the gate may be small. The Americans purchase their baseball heroes with thousands of dollars. They estimate their prowess and activity in the familiar currency. They build amphitheatres, in which hundreds of thousands of "fans" may sit in comfort. And doubtless for them running and jumping are but variations of base-ball. They see money in them, and think it no shame to carry their "rooters" along too.

Above all, the unseemly jealousies and tiresome wranglings which have always disgraced the Olympic Games are a clear condemnation of international sport. We do not care if the American journalists, in a pause between two rounds of the dog-fight, draw ridiculous conclusions from the failure of the English athletes. We care a good deal for the ill-feeling which may be engendered in the false name

of sport between once friendly peoples. Commines said that princes should meet only to share their pleasures. What is true of princes is obviously untrue of nations. The democracies of to-day have not the nonchalance of kings. They may meet together in peace and war. They must keep their sports rigidly apart, if they are to be good friends and decent enemies. None who witnessed the "games" at the White City four years ago will ever forget the pitiful display of ill-feeling and bad manners. In such contests as these the victors can hardly take pleasure, the vanquished can surely feel no pain. In four years' time the nations of the earth will meet in Berlin. We shall regret it exceedingly. The wisest counsel that could be given is that the Olympic Games should never be held again. If this counsel be not accepted, then let us send our athletes, where they are bidden, to do the best they may in the fair spirit of amateurs. And if they fail, let us not raise our voice aloud in protest or regret.

The truth is that sport is at its best when it is least conscious of itself. Cups, records, championships are mere disturbances of its proper office. The royal and ancient game of golf, for

instance, still has its

home in Scotland. It is Scotland which imposes its laws and upholds its honor. It is not Scotland which carries off the most of the prizes. Shall we say, therefore, that Scotland is decadent, degenerate, wornout? No: rather let us congratulate the Scots on the good sense which forbids them to turn their national game into a stern business, or to specialize, with the fury of professionals, in what should be a pleasant recreation. Wherever we look, we shall find the true purpose of sport obscured. Cricket, we are told, is losing its hold upon the public. It is failing as a spectacle. While baseball, as we have said, attracts a mob

of 100,000 citizens of New York, the best advertised encounter of the cricket-field draws no more than 5000. Princely fortunes are made in America by the bold purchase of expert players. There is scarcely a county in England which does not find itself pinched in its resources, though not one of them has the smallest ambition to drag a profit out of the sport. The deficiency matters little, so long as the wickets are pitched on Saturday afternoons throughout the length and breadth of England, for after all two-and-twenty genuine players are worth a thousand lazy onlookers.

And when we examine the argument of those who demand excitement and sensation of a cricket match, in the light of history, we shall speedily recognize its absurdity. Cricket was not made for the spectators. It was the spectators who came to the cricket match. If they do not like it they may stay at home, and the game will be none the worse for their absence. It is easy for them to understand the roughand-tumble of a football match, and with luck they may see a man break his leg, when one member of the league opposes another. But cricket demands for its appreciation a subtle knowledge, which large crowds do not possess. The cunning of the bowler is pitted against the mastery of the batsman in a contest, which always varies with the skill and style of the time, and yet is ever the same. We may still get the same pleasure, if we have the mind and the eye for it, from seeing Barnes and Foster attack the Australians, as Nyren felt when he watched David Harris, that classic among underhand bowlers, who, with his high action, "seemed to push the ball from him," baffling the skill of "Silver Billy." But this is not the pleasure that the mob demands. There is no scandal in it. A record cannot be broken every day.

There are happily

few disputes in the cricket field, and the jaded spectator goes home in discontent, and confides to the newspaper that there is something the matter with cricket.

To increase the speed of cricket, to add to its "sensations," would speedily bring ruin upon it. It is leisurely in its essence. It is a game for clear skies and hot summer days. It is, moreover, an art in which the means should be reverenced as highly as the end. In the golden age of the game it seemed as important to make an elegant gesture as to score a run. Nyren, the first and greatest historian of the game, tells us little enough of big scores. He never forgets the beauty of pose, the grace of movement, which in his eyes ennobled the heroes of Hambledon. He thinks it would have "delighted an artist to see Beldham make himself up to hit a ball." He is sure, in his homely way, that "Phidias would have taken Harris for a model." In days of leisure these were the proofs of excellence-pose and movement. The amateurs of the game did not test their day's sport by the pace of the run-getting. Tom Walker once received 170 balls from David Harris without making a single run, and nobody thought him a bit the worse for it. When Aylward, in 1775, playing for Hambledon against All England, made the marvellous score of 167, he devoted two easy days to the task. The modern critics would have laughed his triumph to scorn.

The truth is, the one and only curse of cricket is the "spectator." He was invented with gate-money, test matches, international sport, and the other enemies of leisure and good-fellowship. When cricket is played for profit, and profit alone, it ceases to be a game, and becomes the foolish plaything of the majority. And if a swift return be not made to the ancient habit, then the mob will dictate to the