d, such as making war and peace, making speeches and
answering them, making verses and blotting them, making money and
throwing it away. But the game of fives is what no one despises who has
ever played at it. It is the finest exercise for the body, and the best
relaxation for the mind. The Roman poet said that "Care mounted behind
the horseman and stuck to his skirts." But this remark would not have
applied to the fives-player. He who takes to playing at fives is twice
young. He feels neither the past nor future "in the instant." Debts,
taxes, "domestic treason, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further."
He has no other wish, no other thought, from the moment the game begins,
but that of striking the ball, of placing it, of _making_ it! This
Cavanagh was sure to do. Whenever he touched the ball there was an end
of the chase. His eye was certain, his hand fatal, his presence of mind
complete. He could do what he pleased, and he always knew exactly what
to do. He saw the whole game, and played it; took instant advantage of
his adversary's weakness, and recovered balls, as if by a miracle and
from sudden thought, that every one gave for lost. He had equal power
and skill, quickness and judgment. He could either outwit his antagonist
by finesse, or beat him by main strength. Sometimes, when he seemed
preparing to send the ball with the full swing of his arm, he would by a
slight turn of his wrist drop it within an inch of the line. In general,
the ball came from his hand, as if from a racket, in a straight,
horizontal line; so that it was in vain to attempt to overtake or stop
it. As it was said of a great orator that he never was at a loss for
a word, and for the properest word, so Cavanagh always could tell
the degree of force necessary to be given to a ball, and the precise
direction in which it should be sent. He did his work with the greatest
ease; never took more pains than was necessary; and while others were
fagging themselves to death, was as cool and collected as if he had just
entered the court. His style of play was as remarkable as his power of
execution. He had no affectation, no trifling. He did not throw away
the game to show off an attitude or try an experiment. He was a fine,
sensible, manly player, who did what he could, but that was more than
any one else could even affect to do. His blows were not undecided and
ineffectual--lumbering like Mr. Wordsworth's epic poetry, nor wavering
like Mr. Coleridge's