It was a beautiful September day, and they floated softly over green
Surrey.
“And this is England!” said the foreigner. “I am indeed glad to be here
at last, and to come in such a way.”
“You could not,” the other replied, “have chosen a more novel or
entertaining means of seeing the country for the first time.”
They leaned over the edge of the basket and looked down. The earth
was spread out like a map: they could see the shape of every meadow,
penetrate every chimney.
“How beautiful,” said the foreigner. “How orderly and precise. No
wonder you conquered the world, you English. How unresting you must
be! But what,” he went on, “is the employment of those men there, on
that great space? Are they practising warfare? See how they walk in
couples, followed by small boys bent beneath some burden. One stops.
The boy gives him a stick. He seems to be addressing himself to the
performance of a delicate rite. See how he waves his hands. He has
struck something. See how they all move on together; what purpose in
their stride! It is the same all over the place--men in pairs, pursuing
or striking, and small bent boys following. Tell me what they are
doing. Are they tacticians?”
“No,” said the other, “they are merely playing golf. That plain is
called a golf links. There are thousands like that in England. It is a
game, a recreation. These men are resting, recreating. You cannot see
it because it is so small, but there is a little white ball which they
hit.”
“The pursuit has no other purpose?” asked the foreigner. “It teaches
nothing? It does not lead to military skill?”
“No.”
“But don’t the boys play too?”
“Oh, no. They only carry.”
The foreigner was silent for a while, and then he pointed again. “See,”
he said, “that field with the white figures. I have noticed so many.
What are they doing? One man runs to a spot and waves his arm; another,
some distance away, waves a club at something. Then he runs and another
runs. They cross. They cross again. Some of the other figures run too.
What does that mean? That surely is practice for warfare?”
“No,” said the other, “that is cricket. Cricket is also a game. There
are tens of thousands of fields like that all over England. They are
merely playing for amusement. The man who waved his arm bowled a ball;
the man who waved his club hit it. You cannot see the ball, but it is
there.”
The stranger was silent again. A little later he drew attention to
another field. “What is that?” he said. “There are men and girls with
clubs all running among each other. Surely that is war. See how they
smite! What Amazons! No wonder England leads the way!”
“No,” said the other, “that is hockey. Another game.”
“And is there a ball there too?” he asked.
“Yes,” was the reply, “a ball.”
“But see the garden of that house,” he remarked; “that is not hockey.
There are only four, but two are women. They also leap about and run
and wave their arms. Is there a ball there?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “there is a ball there. That is lawn tennis.”
“But the white lines,” he said. “Is not that, perhaps, out-door
mathematics? That surely may help to serious things?”
“No,” the other replied, “only another game. There are millions of such
gardens in England with similar lines.”
“Yes,” he said, for they were then over Surbiton, “I see them at this
moment by the hundred.”
They passed on to London. It was at that time of September when
football and cricket overlap, and there was not only a crowded cricket
match at the Oval but an even more crowded football match at Blackheath.
The foreigner caught sight of the Oval first. “Ah,” he said, “you
deceived me. For here is your cricket again, played amid a vast
concourse. How can you call it a game? These crowds would not come
to see a game played, but would play one themselves. It must be more
than you said; it must be a form of tactics that can help to retain
England’s supremacy, and these men are here to learn.”
“No,” said the other, “no. It is just a game. In England we not only
like to play games, but to see them played.”
It was then that the stranger noticed Blackheath. “Ah, now I have you!”
he cried. “Here is another field and another crowd; but this is surely
a battle. See how they dash at each other. And yes, look, one of them
has had his head cut off and the other kicks it. Splendid!”
“No,” said the other, “that is no head, that is a ball. Just a ball. It
is a game, like the others.”
He groaned. “Then I cannot see,” he said at last, “how England won her
victories and became supreme.”
“Ah,” said the other, “at the time that England was winning her
victories and climbing into supremacy, the ball was not her master.”