his life. Unable to endure the strain of meeting the trying problems that confronted him in life, he gave up the battle.
That heroic figure in base ball history, William A. Hulbert, lived only a few years after taking upon his shoulders the burdens of the National League. The brothers, DeHass and Stanley Robison, so long identified with Cleveland and St. Louis Base Ball interests, both died in managerial harness before their allotted span of life. The names of Harry Wright, Ford Evans, Chas. H. Byrne, John I. Rogers and others occur to me as those of men who have given up the fight right in the midst of battle.
And in addition to these are those who fill the ranks of magnates still living, but who have either been forced to leave active Base Ball management in order to escape nervous collapse, or who are yet in the field, carrying on the work, but all the time conscious that they must soon retire—or join the silent majority.
I met James A. Hart, late President of the Chicago Base Ball Club, of the National League, one day after he had sold his interest to its present owner. He had retired, broken in health and completely discouraged. He had greatly improved when I met him, and I said: "Well, James, you're looking fine. Don't you regret having got out of the game?" "Not a regret," answered he. "I'm getting all right again, and life is going to be worth living once more; but it wouldn't be with a ball club on my hands."
There are Base Ball magnates—a few—who seem to
