Part 2

“This is a game for three players at least, who are furnished with clubs. They cut out two holes, each about a foot in diameter and seven inches in depth, and twenty-six feet apart; one man guards each hole with his club; these clubs are called Dogs. A piece of wood, about four inches long and one inch in diameter, called a Cat, is pitched, by a third person, from one hole towards the player at the other, who is to prevent the cat from getting into the hole. If it pitches in the hole, the party who threw it takes his turn with the club. If the cat be struck, the club-bearers change places, and each change of place counts one to the score, _like club-ball_.”

The last observation shows that in the game of Club-ball above-mentioned, the score was made by “runs,” as in cricket.

In what respect, then, do these games differ from cricket as played now? The only exception that can be taken is to the absence of any wicket. But every one familiar with a paper given by Mr. Ward, and published in “Old Nyren,” by the talented Mr. C. Cowden Clarke, will remember that the traditionary “blockhole” was a veritable hole in former times, and that the batsman was made Out in running, not, as now, by putting down a wicket, but by popping the ball into the hole before the bat was grounded in it. The same paper represents that the wicket was two feet wide,--a width which is only rendered credible by the fact that the said hole was not like our mark for guard, four feet distant from the stumps, but cut like a basin in the turf between the stumps; an arrangement which would require space for the frequent struggle of the batsman and wicket-keeper, as to whether the bat of the one, or the hand of the other, should reach the blockhole first.

The conclusion of all is, that Cricket is identical with Club-ball,--a game played in the thirteenth century as single-wicket, and played, if not then, somewhat later as a double-wicket game; that where balls were scarce, a Cat, or bit of wood, as seen in many a village, supplied its place; also that “handyn and handoute” was probably only another name. Fosbroke, in his Dictionary of Antiquities, said, “club-ball was the ancestor of cricket:” he might have said, “club-ball was the old name for cricket, the games being the same.”

The points of difference are not greater than every cricketer can show between the game as now played and that of the last century.

But, lastly, as to the name of Cricket. The bat, which is now straight, is represented in old pictures as crooked, and “cricce” is the simple Saxon word for a crooked stick. The derivation of Billiards from the Norman _billart_, a cue, or from _ball-yard_, according to Johnson, also Nine-pins and Trap-ball, are obvious instances of games which derived their names from the implements with which they are played. Now it appears highly probable that the crooked stick used in the game of Bandy might have been gradually adopted, especially when a wicket to be bowled down by a rolling ball superseded the blockhole to be pitched into. In that case the club having given way to the bandy or crooked bat of the last century, the game, which first was named from the club “club-ball,” might afterwards have been named from the bandy or crooked stick “cricket.”

Add to which, the game might have been played in two ways,--sometimes more in the form of Club-ball, sometimes more like Cricket; and the following remarkable passage proves that a term very similar to Cricket was applied to some game as far back as the thirteenth century, the identical date to which we have traced that form of cricket called club-ball and the game of handyn and handoute.

From the Gentleman’s Magazine, vol. lviii. p. 1., A.D. 1788, we extract the following:--

“In the wardrobe account of the 28th year of King Edward the First, A.D. 1300, published in 1787 by the Society of Antiquaries, among the entries of money paid one Mr. John Leek, his chaplain, for the use of his son Prince Edward in playing at different games, is the following:--

“‘Domino Johanni de Leek, capellano Domini Edwardi fil’ ad _Creag’_ et alios ludos per vices, per manus proprias, 100 s. Apud Westm. 10 die Aprilis, 1305.’”

The writer observes, that the glossaries have been searched in vain for any other name of a pastime but cricket to which the term Creag’ can apply. And why should it not be Cricket? for, we have a singular evidence that, at the same date, Merlin the Magician was a cricketer!

In the romance of “Merlin,” a book in very old French, written about the time of Edward I., is the following:--

“Two of his (Vortiger’s) emissaries fell in with certain children who were playing at _cricket_.”--Quoted in Dunlop’s “History of Fiction.”

The word here rendered _cricket_ is _la crosse_; and in Richelet’s Dict. of Ant. 1680, are these words:

“_Crosse_, à Crosier. Bâton de bois courbé par le bout d’en haut, dont on se sert pour jouer ou pousser quelque balle.”

“_Crosseur_, qui pousse--‘_Cricketer_.’”

Creag’ and Cricket, therefore, being presumed identical, the cricketers of Warwick and of Gloucester may be reminded that they are playing the same game as was played by the dauntless enemy of Robert Bruce, afterwards the prisoner at Kenilworth, and eventually the victim of Mortimer’s ruffians in the dark tragedy of Berkeley Castle.

To advert to a former observation that cricket was originally confined to the lower orders, Robert Southey notes, C. P. Book. iv. 201., that cricket was not deemed a game for gentlemen in the middle of the last century. Tracing this allusion to “The Connoisseur,” No. 132. dated 1756, we are introduced to one Mr. Toby Bumper, whose vulgarities are, “drinking purl in the morning, eating black-puddings at Bartholomew Fair, boxing with Buckhorse,” and also that “he is frequently engaged at the Artillery Ground with Faukner and Dingate _at cricket_, and is esteemed as good a bat as either of the Bennets.” Dingate will be mentioned as an All-England player in our third chapter.

And here we must observe that at the very date that a cricket-ground was thought as low as a modern skittle-alley, we read that even

“Some Dukes at Mary’bone _bowled_ time away;”

and also that a Duchess of Devonshire could be actually watching the play of her guests in the skittle-alley till nine o’clock in the evening.

Our game in later times, we know, has constituted the pastime and discipline of many an English soldier. Our barracks are now provided with cricket grounds; every regiment and every man-of-war has its club; and our soldiers and sailors astonish the natives of every clime, both inland and maritime, with a specimen of a British game: and it deserves to be better known that it was at a cricket match that “some of our officers were amusing themselves on the 12th June, 1815,” says Captain Gordon, “in company with that devoted cricketer the Duke of Richmond, when the Duke of Wellington arrived, and shortly after came the Prince of Orange, which of course put a stop to our game. Though the hero of the Peninsula was not apt to let his movements be known, on this occasion he made no secret that, if he were attacked from the south, Halle would be his position, and, if on the Namur side, WATERLOO.”

CHAP II.

THE GENERAL CHARACTER OF CRICKET.

The game of cricket, philosophically considered, is a standing panegyric on the English character: none but an orderly and sensible race of people would so amuse themselves. It calls into requisition all the cardinal virtues, some moralist would say. As with the Grecian games of old, the player must be sober and temperate. Patience, fortitude, and self-denial, the various bumps of order, obedience, and good-humour, with an unruffled temper, are indispensable. For intellectual virtues we want judgment, decision, and the organ of concentrativeness--every faculty in the free use of all its limbs--and every idea in constant air and exercise. Poor, rickety, and stunted wits will never serve: the widest shoulders are of little use without a head upon them: the cricketer wants wits down to his fingers’ ends. As to physical qualifications, we require not only the volatile spirits of the Irishman _Rampant_, nor the phlegmatic caution of the Scotchman _Couchant_, but we want the English combination of the two; though, with good generalship, cricket is a game for Britons generally: the three nations would mix not better in a regiment than in an eleven; especially if the Hibernian were trained in London, and taught to enjoy something better than what Father Prout terms his supreme felicity, “Otium cum dig-_gin-taties_.”

It was from the southern and south-eastern counties of England that the game of Cricket spread--not a little owing to the Propaganda of the metropolitan clubs, which played chiefly first at the Artillery Ground, then at White Conduit Fields, and thirdly at Thomas Lord’s Grounds, (of which there were two before the present “Lord’s,”) as well as latterly at the Oval, Kennington, and on all sides of London--through all the southern half of England; and during these last twenty years the northern counties, and even Edinburgh, have sent forth distinguished players. But considering that the complement of the game is twenty-two men, besides two Umpires and two Scorers; and considering also that cricket, unlike every other manly contest, by flood or field, occupies commonly more than one day; the railways, as might be expected, have tended wonderfully to the diffusion of cricket,--giving rise to clubs depending on a circle of some thirty or forty miles, as also to that club in particular under the canonised saint, John Zingari, into whom are supposed to have migrated all the erratic spirits of the gipsy tribe. The Zingari are a race of ubiquitous cricketers, exclusively gentlemen-players; for cricket affords to a race of professionals a merry and abundant, though rather a laborious livelihood, from the time the first May-fly is up to the time the first pheasant is down. Neither must we forget the All England and United Elevens, who, under the generalship of Clarke or Wisden, play numbers varying from fourteen to twenty-two in almost every county in England. So proud are provincial clubs of this honour that, besides a subscription of some 70_l._, and part or all of the money at the field-gate being willingly accorded for their services, much hospitality is exercised wherever they go. This tends to a healthy circulation of the life’s blood of cricket, vaccinating and inoculating every wondering rustic with the principles of the national game. Our soldiers, we said, by order of the Horse Guards, are provided with cricket-grounds adjoining their barracks; and all of her Majesty’s ships have bats and balls to astonish the cockroaches at sea, and the crabs and turtles ashore. Hence it has come to pass that, wherever her Majesty’s servants have “carried their victorious arms” and legs, wind and weather permitting, cricket has been played. Still the game is essentially Anglo-Saxon. Foreigners have rarely, very rarely, imitated us. The English settlers and residents everywhere play; but of no single cricket club have we ever heard dieted either with frogs, sour crout, or macaroni. But how remarkable that cricket is not naturalised in Ireland! the fact is very striking that it follows the course rather of ale than whiskey. Witness Kent, the land of hops, and the annual antagonists of “All England.” Secondly, Farnham, which, as we shall presently show, with its adjoining parishes, nurtured the finest of the old players, as well as the finest hops,--_cunabula Trojæ_, the infant school of cricketers. Witness also the Burton Clubs, assisted by our excellent friend next akin to bitter ale. Witness again Alton ale, on which old Beagley throve so well, and the Scotch ale of Edinburgh, on which John Sparkes, though commencing with the last generation, has carried on his instructions, in which we ourselves once rejoiced, into the middle of the present century. The mountain mists and “mountain dew” suit better with deer-stalking than with cricket: our game disdains the Dutch courage of ardent spirits. The brain must glow with Nature’s fire, and not depend upon a spirit lamp. _Mens sana in corpore sano_: feed the body, but do not cloud the mind. You, sir, with the hectic flush, the fire of your eyes burnt low in their sockets, with beak as sharp as a woodcock’s from living upon suction, with pallid face and shaky hand,--our game disdains such ghostlike votaries. Rise with the lark and scent the morning air, and drink from the bubbling rill, and then, when your veins are no longer fevered with alcohol, nor puffed with tobacco smoke,--when you have rectified your illicit spirits and clarified your unsettled judgment,--“come again and devour up my discourse.” And you, sir, with the figure of Falstaff and the nose of Bardolph,--not Christianly eating that you may live, but living that you may eat,--one of the _nati consumere fruges_, the devouring caterpillar and grub of human kind--our noble game has no sympathy with gluttony, still less with the habitual “diner out,” on whom outraged nature has taken vengeance, by emblazoning what was his face (_nimium ne crede colori_), encasing each limb in fat, and condemning him to be his own porter to the end of his days. “Then I am your man--and I--and I,” cry a crowd of self-satisfied youths: “sound are we in wind and limb, and none have quicker hand or eye.” Gently, my friends, so far well; good hands and eyes are instruments indispensable, but only instruments. There is a wide difference between a good workman and a bag of tools, however sharp. We must have heads as well as hands. You may be big enough and strong enough, but the question is whether, as Virgil says,

“_Spiritus intus alit, totamque infusa per artus_ _Mens agitat molem, et magno se corpore miscet._”

And, in these lines, Virgil truly describes the right sort of man for a cricketer: plenty of life in him: not barely soul enough, as Robert South said, to keep his body from putrefaction; but, however large his stature, though he weigh twenty stone, like (we will not say Mr. Mynn), but an olden wicket-keeper, named Burt, or a certain _infant_ genius in the same line, of good Cambridge town,--he must, like these worthies aforesaid, have νους in perfection, and be instinct with sense all over. Then, says Virgil, _igneus est ollis vigor_: “they must always have the steam up,” otherwise the bard would have agreed with us, they are no good in an Eleven, because--

“_Noxia corpora tardant,_ _Terrenique hebetant artus, moribundaque membra;_”

that is, you must suspend the laws of gravitation before they can stir,--dull clods of the valley, and so many stone of carrion; and then Virgil proceeds to describe what discipline will render those, who suffer the penalties of idleness or intemperance, fit to join the chosen _few_ in the cricket-field:

“_Exinde per amplum_ _Mittimur Elysium et pauci læta arva tenemus._”

Of course _Elysium_ means “Lords,” and _læta arva_, “the shooting fields.” We make no apology for classical quotations. At the Universities, cricket and scholarship very generally go together. When, in 1836, we played victoriously on the side of Oxford against Cambridge, seven out of our eleven were classmen; and, it is doubtless only to avoid an invidious distinction that “Heads _v._ Heels,” as was once suggested, has failed to be an annual University match; though the _seri studiorum_--those put to school late--would not have a chance. We extract the following:--

“In a late Convocation holden at Oxford, May 30, 1851, it was agreed to affix the University seal to a power of attorney authorising the sale of 2000_l._ three per cent. consols, for the purpose of paying for and enclosing certain allotments of land in Cowley Common, used as cricket grounds by members of the University, in order to their being preserved for that purpose, and let to the several University cricket clubs in such manner as may hereafter appear expedient.”

From all this we argue that, on the authority of ancient and the experience of modern times, cricket wants mind as well as matter, and, in every sense of the word, a good understanding. How is it that Clarke’s slow bowling is so successful? ask Bayley or Caldecourt; or say Bayley’s own bowling, or that of Lillywhite, or others not much indebted to pace. “You see, sir, they bowl with their heads.” Then only is the game worthy the notice of full-grown men. “A rubber of whist,” says the author of the “Diary of a late Physician,” in his “Law Studies,” “calls into requisition all those powers of mind that a barrister most needs;” and nearly as much may be said of a scientific game of cricket. Mark that first-rate bowler: the batsman is hankering for his favourite cut--no--leg stump is attacked again--extra man on leg side--right--that’s the spot--leg stump, and not too near him. He is screwed up, and cannot cut away; Point has it--persevere--try again--his patience soon will fail. Ah! look at that ball;--the bat was more out of the perpendicular--now the bowler alters his pace--good. A dropping ball--over-reached and all but a mistake;--now a slower pace still, with extra twist--hits furiously to leg, too soon. Leg-stump is grazed, and bail off. “You see, sir,” says the veteran, turning round, “an old player, who knows what is, and what is not, on the ball, alone can resist all the temptations that leg-balls involve. Young players are going their round of experiments, and are too fond of admiration and brilliant hits; whereas it is your upright straight players that worry a bowler--twenty-two inches of wood, by four and a quarter--every inch of them before the stumps, hitting or blocking, is rather disheartening; but the moment a man makes ready for a leg hit, only about five inches by four of wood can cover the wicket; so leg-hitting is the bowler’s chance: cutting also for a similar reason. If there were no such thing as leg-hitting, we should see a full bat every time, the man steady on his legs, and only one thing to think of; and what a task a bowler would have. That was Mr. Ward’s play--good for something to the last. First-rate straight play and free leg-hitting seldom last long together: when once exulting in the luxurious excitement of a leg volley, the muscles are always on the quiver to swipe round, and the bowler sees the bat raised more and more across wicket. So, also, it is with men who are yearning for a cut: forming for the cut, like forming for leg-hit--aye, and almost the idea of those hits coming across the mind--set the muscles off straight play, and give the bowler a chance. There is a deal of head-work in bowling: once make your batsman set his mind on one hit, and give him a ball requiring the contrary, and he is off his guard in a moment.”

Certainly, there is something highly intellectual in our noble and national pastime. But the cricketer must possess other qualifications; not only physical and intellectual, but moral qualifications also. Of what avail is the head to plan and hand to execute, if a sulky temper paralyses exertion, and throws a damp upon the field; or if impatience dethrones judgment, and the man hits across at good balls, because loose balls are long in coming; or, again, if a contentious and imperious disposition leaves the cricketer all ‘alone in his glory,’ voted the pest of every eleven?

The pest of the hunting-field is the man always thinking of his own horse and own riding, galloping against MEN and not after HOUNDS. The pest of the cricket-field is the man who bores you about his average--his wickets--his catches; and looks blue even at the success of his own party. If unsuccessful in batting or fielding, he gives up all--“the wretch concentred all in self.” No! Give me the man who forgets himself in the game, and, missing a ball, does not stop to exculpate himself by dumb show, but rattles away after it--who does not blame his partner when he is run out--who plays like play and not like a painful operation. Such a chilly, bleak, northwest aspect some men do put on--it is absurd to say they are enjoying themselves. We all know it is trying to be out first ball. “Oh! that first look back at rattling stumps--why, I couldn’t have had right guard!”--that conviction that the ball turned, or but for some unaccountable suspension of the laws of motion (the earth perhaps coming to a hitch upon its ungreased axis) it had not happened! Then there’s the spoiling of your average, (though some begin again and reckon anew!) and a sad consciousness that every critic in the three tiers of the Pavilion, as he coolly speculates “_quis cuique dolor victo, quæ gloria palmæ_,” knows your mortification. Oh! that sad walk back, a “returned convict;” we must all pace it, “_calcanda semel via leti_.” A man is sure never to take his eyes off the ground, and if there’s a bit of stick in the way he kicks it instinctively with the side of his shoe. Add, that cruel _post mortem_ examination into your “case,” and having to answer the old question, How was it? or perhaps forced to argue with some vexatious fellow who imputes it to the very fault on which you are so sore and sensitive. All this is trying; but since it is always happening, an “inseparable accident” of the game, it is time that an unruffled temper should be held the “differentia” of the true cricketer and bad temper voted bad play. Eleven good-tempered men, other points equal, would beat eleven sulky or eleven irritable gentlemen out of the field. The hurling of bats and angry ebullitions show inexperience in the game and its chances; as if any man in England could always catch, or stop, or score. This very uncertainty gives the game its interest. If Pilch or Parr were sure of runs, who would care to play? But as they make sometimes five and sometimes fifty, we still contend with flesh and blood. Even Achilles was vulnerable at the heel; or, mythologically, he could not stop a shooter to the leg stump. So never let the Satan icagency of the gaming-table brood on those “happy fields” where, _strenua nos exercet inertia_, there is an energy in our idle hours, not killing time but enjoying it. Look at good honest James Dean; his “patient merit” never “goes Out sighing” nor In, either--never in a mumbling, though a “melting mood.” Perspiration may roll off him, like bubbles from a duck’s back, but it’s all down to the day’s work. He looks, as every cricketer should look, like a man out for a holiday, shut up in “measureless content.” It is delightful to see such a man make a score.

Add to all this, perseverance and self-denial, and a soul above vain-glory and the applause of the vulgar. Aye, perseverance in well-doing--perseverance in a straightforward, upright, and consistent course of action.--See that player practising apart from the rest. What an unpretending style of play--a hundred pounds appear to depend on every ball--not a hit for these five minutes--see, he has a shilling on his stumps, and Hillyer is doing his best to knock it off. A question asked after every ball, the bowler being constantly invited to remind him of the least inaccuracy in hitting or danger in defence. The other players are hitting all over the field, making every one (but a good judge) marvel. Our friend’s reward is that in the first good match, when some supposed brilliant Mr. Dashwood has been stumped from leg ball--(he cannot make his fine hits in his ground)--bowled by a shooter or caught by that sharpest of all Points Ἄναξ ἄνδρων, then our persevering friend--ball after ball dropping harmless from his bat, till ever and anon a single or a double are safely played away--has two figures appended to his name; and he is greeted in the Pavilion as having turned the chances of the game in favour of his side.