ural. My
own position is the opposite of this. I believe in the supernatural as a
matter of intellect and reason, not as a matter of personal experience.
I do not see ghosts; I only see their inherent probability. But it is
entirely a matter of the mere intelligence, not even of the motions;
my nerves and body are altogether of this earth, very earthy. But
upon people of this temperament one weird incident will often leave a
peculiar impression. And the weirdest circumstance that ever occurred
to me occurred a little while ago. It consisted in nothing less than my
playing a game, and playing it quite well for some seventeen consecutive
minutes. The ghost of my grandfather would have astonished me less.

On one of these blue and burning afternoons I found myself, to my
inexpressible astonishment, playing a game called croquet. I had
imagined that it belonged to the epoch of Leach and Anthony Trollope,
and I had neglected to provide myself with those very long and luxuriant
side whiskers which are really essential to such a scene. I played
it with a man whom we will call Parkinson, and with whom I had a
semi-philosophical argument which lasted through the entire contest. It
is deeply implanted in my mind that I had the best of the argument; but
it is certain and beyond dispute that I had the worst of the game.

"Oh, Parkinson, Parkinson!" I cried, patting him affectionately on the
head with a mallet, "how far you really are from the pure love of the
sport--you who can play. It is only we who play badly who love the Game
itself. You love glory; you love applause; you love the earthquake voice
of victory; you do not love croquet. You do not love croquet until
you love being beaten at croquet. It is we the bunglers who adore the
occupation in the abstract. It is we to whom it is art for art's sake.
If we may see the face of Croquet herself (if I may so express myself)
we are content to see her face turned upon us in anger. Our play is
called amateurish; and we wear proudly the name of amateur, for amateurs
is but the French for Lovers. We accept all adventures from our Lady,
the most disastrous or the most dreary. We wait outside her iron gates
(I allude to the hoops), vainly essaying to enter. Our devoted balls,
impetuous and full of chivalry, will not be confined within the pedantic
boundaries of the mere croquet ground. Our balls seek honour in the ends
of the earth; they turn up in the flower-beds and the conservatory; t