Excerpt from Twenty Years of Lawn Tennis Some Personal Memories

I Must begin these reminiscences on a note of sadness. Wimbledon is passing! Not the institution which the world knows as the lawn tennis championships, but the ground hallowed by the history of the game - a history shoemarked on its courts.

It is rather a tragic thought, this uprooting of a shrine saluted for twoscore years and more by every disciple of lawn tennis in this country and by many a pilgrim from distant lands. After another June, or possibly two, dust-stained pedestrians, panting to reach the wicket gate, will cease to jostle each other on the railway footpath; old ladies and young will cease to camp out in that uninspiring strip of unkempt roadway which connects the Worple Road with the gates of the All England Club; waiting motor-cars will no longer convert a quiet and respectable neighbourhood into one great, inchoate garage.

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