Turning to cricket in general, perhaps the modern game, as played on a good wicket, is in every respect, save one, perfection.  If only something could be done to curtail the length of matches, and rid us of that awful nuisance the poking, time-wasting batsman, there would be little improvement possible.

“All the world’s a stage,” and even at cricket the analogy holds good.  Thus Shakespeare: 

     “As in a theatre the eyes of men,
      After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
      Are idly bent on him that enters next,
      Thinking his prattle to be tedious.”

So also one may say of some dull and lifeless cricketer who, after the famous Gloucestershire hitter has made things merry for spectators and scouts alike, “enters next”: 

     “As in a cricket field the eyes of men,
      After a well-Graced player leaves the sticks,
      Are idly bent on him that enters next,
      Thinking his batting to be tedious.”

On the other hand, if we sow the wild oats of cricket—­in other words, if we risk everything for the fleeting satisfaction of a blind “slog”—­we shall be bowled, stumped, or caught out for a moral certainty.  It is only a matter of time.

Perhaps the addition of another stump might help towards the very desirable end of shortening the length of matches, and thus enable more amateurs to take part in them.  I cannot agree with those who lament the improved state of our best English cricket grounds; if only the batsmen play a free game and do not waste time, the game is far more entertaining for players and spectators alike, when a true wicket is provided.  The heroes of old,

     “When Bird and Beldham, Budd, and such as they,—­
      Lord Frederick, too, once England’s chief and flower,—­
      Astonished all who came to see them play,”

those “scorners of the ground” and of pads and gloves doubtless displayed more pluck on their rough, bumpy grounds than is now called forth in facing the attack of Kortright, Mold, or Richardson.  But on the other hand, on rough grounds much is left to chance and luck; cricket, as played on a billiard-table wicket certainly favours the batsman, but it admits of a brilliancy and finish in the matter of style that are impossible on the old-fashioned wicket.  Whilst the modern bowler has learnt extraordinary accuracy of pitch, the batsman has perfected the art of “timing” the ball.  And what a subtle, delicate art is correct “timing"!—­the skilful embodiment of thought in action, depending for success on that absolute sympathy of hand and eye which only assiduous practice, confidence, and a good digestion can give.  And on uncertain, treacherous ground confident play is never seen.  A ball cannot be “cut” or driven with any real brilliancy of style when there is a likelihood of its abruptly “shooting” or bumping.  No; if we would leave as little as possible to chance, our grounds cannot be too good.  Even from a purely selfish point of view, apart from the welfare of our side, the pleasure derived from a good “innings” on a first-rate cricket ground is as great as that bestowed by any other physical amusement.