Then, again, people who
cross the ocean in dories, or fast for indefinite periods, have never
aroused my enthusiasm. On the contrary, I regard them as being in the
same general category with lunatics. I have never seen a bull-fight,
and I have sometimes fancied that I should be weak enough to attend one
out of curiosity if I happened to be in Spain at the right time; but I
am sure that I should never care to go twice. And yet I am expected to
feel proud and grateful because my eldest son has made prowess at
foot-ball the aim and object of his college course. I am trying to,
trying hard, but I fear it is no use. I should like to understand why
it is glorious or sensible for an honest, strapping fellow, who has
been sent to college by dint of some economy on the part of his
parents, to devote his entire energies to a course of training which
will entitle him to run the risk of having his legs, arms, or ribs
broken in fighting for a leather ball before several thousand people.
Of one thing I am certain already, even at the risk of seeming to agree
with Horace Plympton, which is, that if I had another son with like
proclivities, I should put a stop to it.
But then, as Josephine reminds me, the fact that our David does not
care a picayune for anything of the sort, robs my resolve of much of
its solemnity.
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