There are few prettier sights
than an English game, of any kind, on a beautiful stretch of turf. The
English live, and move and have their being out of doors. A
cricket-match, tennis, a racecourse, or a game of polo, show them at
their greatest advantage, whether as players or spectators. Their fresh
complexions suit the green of the grass and of the trees as naturally as
a bed of roses, or cyclamens, or any fresh and healthy flower will
combine with the grass and the ferns in garden or glen. The glorious
vitality that belongs to their race seems to blossom freshly in the
contact with their mother earth, and the physical capacity for motion
with which nature endows them makes them graceful and fascinating to
watch, when in some free and untrammelled dress of white they are at
their games, batting and bowling and galloping and running; they have
the same natural grace then as a herd of deer or antelopes; they are
beautiful animals in the full enjoyment of life and vigour, of health
and strength; they are intensely alive. Something of this kind passed
through my mind, in all probability, and, combined with the delightful
sensation any strong man feels in the pause after great exertion,
disposed me well towards my fellows and towards mankind at large.
Besides we had won the last game.
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