In that cheerful world I can hardly recall a time when a big man with a
black beard was not my King.

I first saw him in the 'seventies. I was a small boy then, and I did him
the honour of playing truant--"playing wag" we called it. I felt that the
occasion demanded it. To have the god of my idolatry in my own little town
and not to pay him my devotions--why, the idea was almost like blasphemy. A
half-dozen, or even a dozen, from my easily infuriated master would be a
small price to pay. I should take the stripes as a homage to the hero. He
would never know, but I should be proud to suffer in his honour.
Unfortunately there was a canvas round the field where the hero played, and
as the mark of the Mint was absent from my pockets I was on the wrong side
of the canvas. But I knew a spot where by lying flat on your stomach and
keeping your head very low you could see under the canvas and get a view of
the wicket. It was not a comfortable position, but I saw the King. I think
I was a little disappointed that there was nothing supernatural about his
appearance and that there were no portents in the heavens to announce his
coming. It didn't seem quite right somehow. In a general way I knew he was
only a man, but I was quite prepared to see something tremendous happen,
the sun to dance or the earth to heave, when he appeared. I never felt the
indifference of Nature to the affairs of men so acutely.

I saw him many times afterwards, and I suppose I owe more undiluted
happiness to him than to any man that ever lived. For he was the genial
tyrant in a world that was all sunshine. There are other games, no doubt,
which will give you as much exercise and pleasure in playing them as
cricket, but there is no game that fills the mind with such memories and
seems enveloped in such a gracious and kindly atmosphere. If you have once
loved it and played it, you will find talk in it enough "for the wearing
out of six fashions," as Falstaff says. I like a man who has cricket in his