tell you; not so in America, despite the gigantic headings of the
evening papers at certain seasons.

But how mighty, nevertheless, is baseball! Its fame floats through
Europe as something prodigious, incomprehensible, romantic, and
terrible. After being entertained at early lunch in the correct hotel
for this kind of thing, I was taken, in a state of great excitement, by
a group of excited business men, and flashed through Central Park in an
express automobile to one of the great championship games. I noted the
excellent arrangements for dealing with feverish multitudes. I noted the
splendid and ornate spaciousness of the grand-stand crowned with
innumerable eagles, and the calm, matter-of-fact tone in which a friend
informed me that the grand-stand had been burned down six months ago. I
noted the dreadful prominence of advertisements, and particularly of
that one which announced "the 3-dollar hat with the 5-dollar look," all
very European! It was pleasant to be convinced in such large letters
that even shrewd America is not exempt from that universal human naïveté
which is ready to believe that in some magic emporium a philanthropist
is always waiting to give five dollars' worth of goods in exchange for
three dollars of money.

Then I braced my intelligence to an understanding of the game, which,
thanks to its classical simplicity, and to some training in the finesse
of cricket and football, I did soon grasp in its main outlines. A
beautiful game, superbly played. We reckon to know something of ball
games in Europe; we reckon to be connoisseurs; and the old footballer
and cricketer in me came away from that immense inclosure convinced that
baseball was a game of the very first class, and that those players were
the most finished exponents of it. I was informed that during the winter
the players condescended to follow the law and other liberal