Cricket 1910

S e p t . 2 2 , 19 1 0 . CRICKET : A WEEKLY RECORD OF THE GAME. hanging a slender wreath on tbe monument of men who deserved a richer sepulchre,— shut your eyes for one moment to the follies and vanities of passing events, and believe yourself walking in a fine summer morning on the down of Broad Halfpenny, waiting the commencement of a match. You know the scenery of that secluded vale; the fine undulating sweep of its beechen forests, the beautiful and variegated turf, the glittering of the ocean, the blue hills of the Isle of Wight looming in the distance, and the elmy gardens and half-wild orchards sprinkled in the bottom. Well ! believe yourself transported there;—and now ten (the old hour, before modern fashion and indolence had superseded it) has struck; a few cricketers in their white dress, \ and numerous groups of farmers and rustics, have assembled from grange . and farm, from Exton down to the hills of Petersfield, — and now all is bustle and expectation. A shout!—turn to the right! You may instantly know who it is; Noah Mann from North Chapel in Sussex, who lately joined the club, and who rides at least twenty miles every Tuesday to practise. Look at those handkerchiefs on the ground ! Riding at full speed, he stoops down, and collects every one without effort. Mann was a severe hitter. One stroke of his is even now remembend, in which he got the immense number of ten runs. He was short, and black as a gypsey, broad chest, large hips, and spider legs. He never played with a hat; his complexion benefited. by the Sun. The roar that followed Mann’s celebrated hit never is to be forgotten, it was like the rushing of a cataract; it came pour­ ing from a thousand lungs. And there is his namesake and opponent, Sir Horace, walking about outside tbe ground, cutting down tbe daisies with his stick, as gentle he, as the simple flowers which he was strewing beside him! —That stout, well-made man in with Mann is Jamet Aylivard, the faimer. Glory and honour be to him. Ayl- ward once stood in two whole days, and scored one hundred and sixty-seven runs. Soon after, he was seen to have been called by Sir Horace Mann into a corner of the field; a short conversation took place between them; it was mysteiious, in an under-tone, with short glances of circumspection ; but it was decisive: they soon parted; and never after was James Aylward seen at the Hambledon Club. The next time he was arrayed, was among its opponents, and fighting under Sir Horace’s banners. When Aylward affected grandeur, he used to call for a lemon after he had been in but a short time : this was a high piece of affectation for a farmer,—it was a fine touch of the heroic. That man who now takes the bat, has not, perhaps nor ever will have, a superior. Stand up, Tom Walker! show thy scraggy frame, thy apple-john face, thy spider-legs, thick at the ancles as at the hips, thy knuckles like the bark of the Hainault oak! Tom had neither flesh, nor blood, nor skin. He was all muscle, tendon, gristle, covered with the hide of the rhinoceros. You might as well attempt to get Wellington from a field of battle, or Bentley from a Greek poet, as to get Tom from his wicket. Once JThe old cricketers were dressed differently from the modern. The gentlemen always played in breeches and silk stockings; the players, as Lord Winchilsea’s, wore hats with gold binding, and ribbons of particular colour. The present dress is inconvenient as well as unbecom ing; for troicsers may be in the way of the ball. Mr. Sudd was the last cricketer who wore the old dress. Lord Frederick Beauclerk was bowling to him ; four fine length balls one after the other were sent in with his Lordship’s finished science; down tLey all went before the bat, and off went his Lordship’s white hat, as usual, calling him “ a confounded old beast.”— ‘ I doant care nothing what- someer ee zays,” quoth Tom, and on he went, laying his Lordship down in the finest style and the coolest temper. Tom was a farmer, and his land lay near the Devil's Punch bowl. Next came John 7 Veils, called “ Honest John Wells!” he was a baker at Farnham, a well-set man, short, and stout like a cob. He was a good bowler and steady batter, and a good servant of all work; but we must hasten on, for we are at length arrived at the tent of Achilles himself. Stop, reader, and look, if thou art a cricketer, with reverence and awe on that venerable and aged form ! These are the remains of the once great, glorious, and unrivalled W illiam B eldham , called for love and respect, and for his flaxen locks and his fair complexion, “ Silver Billy.” Beldham was a close set, active man, about five feet e:ght inches. Never was such a player! so safe, so brilliant, so quick, so circumspect; so able in counsel, so active in the fiel 1; in de­ liberation so judicious, in execution so tremendous. It mattered not to him who bowled, or how he bowled, fast or slow, high or low, straight or bias ; away flew the ball from his bat, like an eagle on the wing. It was a study for Phidias to see Beldham rise to strike ; the grandeur of the attitude, the settled composure of the look, the piercing lightning of the eye, the rapid glance of the bat, were electrical. Men’s hearts throbbed within them, their cheeks turned pale and red. Michael Angelo should have painted him. Beldham was great in every hit, but his peculiar glory was the cut. Here he stood with no man beside him, the laurel was all his own; it was like the cut of a racket. His wrist seemed to turn on springs of the finest steel. He took the ball, as Burke did the House of Commons, between wind and water; not a moment too soon or late. Beldbam still survives. He lives near Farnbam ; and in his kitchen, black with age, but, like himself, still untouched with worms, hangs the trophy of his victories, tbe delight of his youth, the exercise of his manhood, and the glory of his age—his BAT. Reader! believe me, when I tell you I trembled when I touched i t ; it seemed an act of profaneness, of violation. I pressed it to my lips, and returned it to its sanctuary. The last, the “ Ultimus Romanorum,” we can find room to commemorate, is David Harris. Who knows not David Harris? the finest bowler whom the world ever rejoiced in when living, or lamented over when dead. Harris was by trade a potter, and lived at Odiham in Hants, an honest, plainfaced (in two senses), worthy man. “ Good David Harris” he was called; of strict principle, high honour, inflexible integrity; a character on which scandal or calumny never dared to breathe. A good cricketer, like a good orator, must be an honest man; but what are orators compared to the men of cricket. There have been a hundred, a thousand orators; there never was but one David Harris. Many men can make good speeches, but few men can deliver a good ball. litany men can throw down a strong enemy, but Harris could overthrow the strongest wicket. Cicero once undermined the conspiracy of Catiline; and Harris once laid prostrate even the stumps of Beldham. It is said that it is utterly impossible to convey with tbe pen an idea of th* grand effect of Harris's bowling. His attitude, when preparing to deliver the ball, was masculine, erect and appalling. First, he stood like a so’.dier at drill, upright. Then with a graceful and elegant curve, he raised the fa*al ball to his forehead, and drawing back his right foot, started off. Woe be to the unlucky wight who did not know how to stop these cannonades ! his fingers would be ground to dust against the bat, his bones pulverized, and his blood scattered over the field. Lord F. Beauclerk has been heard to say, that Harris’s bowling was one of the grandest sights in the universe. Like the Pantbeon, in Akenside’s Hymn, it was “ simply and severely great.” Harris was terribly afflicted with the gout; it was at length difficult for him to stand; a great aimchair was therefore always brought into the field, and after the delivery of the ball, the hero sat down in his own calm and simple grandeur, and reposed. A fine tribute this, to his superiority, even amid the tortures of disease! If, like Sallust and Hume, we may venture our comparison of the relative merits of two illustrious men, we should say, in contrast­ ing Harris with Lumpy that, Harris always chose a ground when pitch­ ing a wicket, where his ball would rise. Lumpy endeavoured to gain the advantage of a declivity where his might shoot. Harris considered his partner’s wicket as carefully as his own. Lumpy attended only to himself. Lumpy’s ball was as well pitched as Harris’s, but delivered lower , and never got up so high. Lumpy was also a pace or two slower. Lumpy gained more wickets than Harris; but then fewer notches were got from Hanis’s bowling; aud more players were caught out. Now and then a great batter, as Fennex, or Beldham, would beat Lumpy entirely; but Harris was always great, and always to be feared. We must now draw our brief memoirs to a close. Unwillingly do we drop the pen. Very pleasant has our task been, delightful our recollections. Farewell, ye smiling fields of Hambledon and Windmill Hill! Farewell ye thymy pastures of our beloved Hampshire, and farewell ye spirits of the brave, who still hover over the field of your inheritance. Great and illustrious eleven! fare ye well! in these fleeting pages at least, your names shall be enrolled. What would life be, deprived of the recollection of you? Troy has fallen, and Thebes is a ruin. The pride of Athens is decayed, and Rome is crumbling to the dust. The philosophy of Bacon is wearing out; and the victories of Marlborough have been overshadowed by fresher laurels. All is vanity but cricket ; all is sinking in oblivion but you. Greatest of all elevens, fare ye well! Sacred to the memory of the eleven greatest players of the Hambledon Club. 1. David Harris. 2. John Wells. 3. 11. Purchase. 4. William Beldham. 5. John Small, jun. 6. Harry Walker. 7. Tom Walker. 8. R. Robinson. 9. Noah Mann. 10. J. Scott. 11. T. Taylor. (To be concluded.)