COTSWOLD PASTIMES.
It is not surprising that in those countries which abound in sunshine
and fresh, health-giving air, the inhabitants will invariably be found
to be not only keen sportsmen, but also accomplished experts in all the
games and pastimes for which England has long been famous. Given good
health and plenty of work mankind cannot help being cheerful and
sociably inclined; for this reason we have christened the district of
which we write the "Merrie Cotswolds." From time immemorial the country
people have delighted in sports and manly exercises. On the north wall
of the nave in Cirencester Church is a representation of the ancient
custom of Whitsun ale. The Whitsuntide sports were always a great
speciality on Cotswold, and continue to the present day, though in a
somewhat modified form.
The custom portrayed in the church of Cirencester was as follows:--
The villagers would assemble together in one of the beautiful old barns
which are so plentiful in every hamlet. Two of them, a boy and a girl,
were then chosen out and appointed Lord and Lady of the Yule. These are
depicted on the church wall; and round about them, dressed in their
proper garb, are pages and jesters, standard-bearer, purse-bearer,
mace-bearer, and a numerous company of dancers.
The reason that a representation of this very secular custom is seen in
the church probably arises from the fact that the Church ales were
feasts instituted for the purpose of raising money for the repair of the
church. The churchwardens would receive presents of malt from the
farmers and squires around; they sold the beer they brewed from it to
the villagers, who were obliged to attend or else pay a fine.
The church house--a building still to be seen in many villages--was
usually the scene of the festivities.
The "Diary of Master William Silence" tells us that the quiet little
hamlets presented an unusually gay appearance on these memorable
occasions. "The village green was covered with booths. There were
attractions of various kinds. The churchwardens had taken advantage of
the unusual concourse of strangers as the occasion of a Church ale.
Great barrels of ale, the product of malt contributed by the
parishioners according to their several abilities, were set abroach in
the north aisle of the church, and their contents sold to the public.
This was an ordinary way of providing for church expenses, against which
earnest reformers inveighed, but as yet in vain so far as Shallow was
concerned. The church stood conveniently near the village green, and the
brisk trade which was carried on all day was not interrupted by the
progress of divine service." The parson's discourse, however, appears to
have suffered some interruption by reason of the numbers who crowded
into the aisles to patronise the churchwardens' excellent ale.
In the reign of James I. one, Robert Dover, revived the old Olympic
games on Cotswold. Dover's Hill, near Weston-under-Edge, was called
after him.
These sports included horse-racing, coursing, cock-fighting, and such
games as quoits, football, skittles, wrestling, dancing, jumping in
sacks, and all the athletic exercises.
The "Annalia Dubrensia" contain many verses about these sports by the
hand of Michael Drayton, Ben Jonson, and others.
"On Cotteswold Hills there meets
A greater troop of gallants than Rome's streets
E'er saw in Pompey's triumphs: beauties, too,
More than Diana's beavie of nymphs could show
On their great hunting days."
That hunting was practised here in these days is evident, for Thomas
Randall, of Cambridge, writes in the same volume:
"Such royal pastimes Cotteswold mountains fill,
When gentle swains visit Anglonicus hill,
When with such packs of hounds they hunting go
As Cyrus never woon'd his bugle to."
Fozbrooke tells us that the Whitsuntide sports are the _floralia_ of the
Romans. They are still a great institution in all parts of the
Cotswolds, though Church ales, like cock-fighting and other barbaric
amusements, have happily long since died out.
Golf and archery are popular pastimes in the merry Cotswolds. It is
somewhat remarkable that this district has produced in recent years the
amateur lady champions of England in each of these fascinating pastimes,
Lady Margaret Scott, of Stowell, being _facile princeps_ among lady
golfers, whilst Mrs. Christopher Bowly, of Siddington, even now holds
the same position in relation to the ancient practice of archery.
The ancient art of falconry is still practised in these parts. Thirty
years ago, when Duleep Singh lived at Hatherop, hawking on the downs was
one of his chief amusements. But the only hawking club hereabouts that
we know of is at Swindon, in Wiltshire.
Coursing is as popular as ever among the Cotswold farmers. These hills
have always been noted for the sport. Drayton tells us that the prize at
the coursing meetings held on the Cotswolds in his day was a
silver-studded collar. Shakespeare, in his _Merry Wives of Windsor_
alludes to the coursing on "Cotsall." There is an excellent club at
Cirencester. The hares in this district are remarkably big and
strong-running. The whole district lends itself particularly to this
sport, owing to the large fields and fine stretches of open downs.
CRICKET.
In an agricultural district such as the Cotswolds it is inevitable that
the game of cricket should be somewhat neglected. Men who work day after
day in the open air, and to whom a half-holiday is a very rare
experience, naturally seek their recreations in less energetic fashion
than the noble game of cricket demands of its votaries. The class who
derive most benefit from this game spring as a rule from towns and
manufacturing centres and those whose work and interests confine them
indoors the greater part of their time. Among the Cotswold farmers,
however, a great deal of interest is shown; the scores of county matches
are eagerly pursued in the daily papers; and if there is a big match on
at Cheltenham or any other neighbouring town, a large number invariably
go to see it. There is some difficulty in finding suitable sites for
your ground in these parts, for the hill turf is very stony and shallow;
it is not always easy to find a flat piece of ground handy to the
villages. A cricket ground is useless to the villagers if it is perched
up on the hill half a mile away. It must be at their doors; and even
then, though they may occasionally play, they will never by any chance
trouble to roll it. We made a ground in the valley of the Coln some
years ago, and went to some expense in the way of levelling, filling up
gravel pits, and removing obstructions like cowsheds; but unless we had
looked after it ourselves and made preparations for a match, it would
have soon gone back to its original rough state again. And yet two of
the young Peregrines in the village are wonderfully good cricketers, and
as "keen as mustard" about it; though when it comes to rolling and
mowing the ground they are not quite as keen. They will throw you over
for a match in the most unceremonious way if, when the day comes, they
don't feel inclined to play. We have often tried to persuade these two
young fellows to become professional cricketers, there being such a poor
prospect in the farming line; but they have not the slightest ambition
to play for the county, though they are quite good enough; so they
"waste their sweetness on the desert air."
Old Mr. Peregrine, a man of nearly eighty years of age, is splendid fun
when he is watching his boys play cricket. He goes mad with excitement;
and if you take them off bowling, however much the batsmen appear to
relish their attack, he won't forgive you for the rest of the day.
His eldest son, Tom--our old friend the keeper--generally stands umpire;
he is not so useful to his side as village umpires usually are, because
he hasn't got the moral courage to give his side "in" when he knows
perfectly well they are "out." The other day, however, he made a slight
error; for, on being appealed to for the most palpable piece of
"stumping" ever seen in the cricket field, the ball bouncing back on to
the wicket from the wicket-keeper's pads while the batsman was two yards
out of his ground, he said, "Not out; it hit the wicket-keeper's pads."
He imagined he was being asked whether the batsman had been bowled, and
it never occurred to him that you could be "stumped out" in this way.
Altogether, Cotswold cricket is great fun.
The district is full of memories of the prehistoric age, and in certain
parts of the country _prehistoric_ cricket is still indulged in. Never
shall I forget going over to Edgeworth with the Winson Cricket XI. to
play a _grand_ match at that seat of Roman antiquities. The carrier
drove us over in his pair-horse brake--a rickety old machine, with a
pony of fourteen hands and a lanky, ragged-hipped old mare over sixteen
hands high in the shafts together. A most useful man in the field was
the honest carrier, whether at point or at any other place where the
ball comes sharp and quick; for, to quote Shakespeare,
"he was a man
Of an unbounded stomach."
The rest of our team included the jovial miller; two of the village
carpenter's sons--excellent folk; the village curate, who captained the
side, and stood six feet five inches without his cricket shoes; one or
two farmers; a footman, and a somewhat fat and apoplectic butler.
The colours mostly worn by the Winson cricketers are black, red, and
gold--a Zingaric band inverted (black on top); their motto I believe to
be "Tired, though united."
As the ground stands about eight hundred feet above sea level, all of
us, but especially the fat butler, found considerable difficulty in
getting to the top of the hill, after the brake had set us down at the
village public. But once arrived, a magnificent view was to be had,
extending thirty miles and more across the wolds to the White Horse Hill
in Berkshire. However, we had not come to admire the view so much as to
play the game of cricket. We therefore proceeded to look for the pitch.
It was known to be in the field in which we stood, because a large red
flag floated at one end and proclaimed that somewhere hereabouts was the
scene of combat. It was the fat butler, I think, who, after sailing
about in a sea of waving buttercups like a veritable Christopher
Columbus, first discovered the stumps among the mowing grass.
Evident preparations had been made either that morning or the previous
night for a grand match; a large number of sods of turf had been taken
up and hastily replaced on that portion of the wicket where the ball is
supposed to pitch when it leaves the bowler's hand. There had been no
rain for a month, but just where the stumps were stuck a bucket or two
of water had been dashed hastily on to the arid soil; while, to crown
all, a chain or rib roller--a ghastly instrument used by agriculturists
for scrunching up the lumps and bumps on the ploughed fields, and
pulverising the soil--had been used with such effect that the surface of
the pitch to the depth of about an inch had been reduced to dust.
In spite of this we all enjoyed ourselves immensely. Delightful
old-fashioned people, both farmers and labourers, were playing against
us; quaint (I use the word in its true sense) and simple folk, who
looked as if they had been dug up with the other Saxon and Roman
antiquities for which Edgeworth is so famous.
I was quite certain that the man who bowled me out was a direct
descendant of Julius Caesar. He delivered the ball underhand at a rapid
rate. It came twisting along, now to the right, now to the left; seemed
to disappear beneath the surface of the soil, then suddenly came in
sight again, shooting past the block. Eventually they told me it removed
the left bail, and struck the wicket-keeper a fearful blow on the chest.
It was generally agreed that such a ball had never been bowled before.
"'Twas a _pretty_ ball!" as Tom Peregrine pronounced it, standing umpire
in an enormous wideawake hat and a white coat reaching down to his
knees, and smoking a bad cigar. "A very pretty ball," said my fellow
batsman at the other wicket "A d--d pretty ball," I reiterated _sotto
voce_, as I beat a retreat towards the flag in the corner of the field,
which served as a pavilion.
When I went on to bowl left-handed "donkey-drops," Tom Peregrine (my own
servant, if you please) was very nearly no-balling me. "For," said he,
"I 'ate that drabby-handed business; it looks so awkid. Muddling work, I
calls it." But I am anticipating.
As I prepared myself for the fray, and carefully donned a pair of
well-stuffed pads and an enormously thick woollen jersey for protection,
not so much against the cold as against the "flying ball," it flashed
across me that I was about to personify the immortal Dumkins of Pickwick
fame; whilst in my companion, the stout butler, it was impossible not
to detect the complacent features and rounded form of Mr. Podder. Up to
a certain point the analogy was complete. Let the Winson Invincibles
equal the All Muggleton C.C., while the Edgeworth Daisy Cutters shall be
represented by Dingley Dell; then sing us, thou divine author of
Pickwick, the glories of that never-to-be-forgotten day.
"All Muggleton had the first innings, and the interest became intense
when Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder--two of the most renowned members of
that distinguished club--walked bat in hand to their respective wickets.
Mr. Luffy, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl
against the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do
the same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Podder...The umpires
were stationed behind the wickets [Tom Peregrine had been suborned for
Winson, and proved the most useful man on the side], the scorers were
prepared to notch the runs. A breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffy
retired a few paces behind the wicket of the passive Podder, and applied
the ball to his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins [the author]
confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed on the motions of Mr.
Luffy. 'Play!' suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand
straight and swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary
Dumkins was on the alert; it fell upon the tip of his bat...."
Here, with deep sorrow, let it be stated that the writer failed to
evince the admirable skill displayed by his worthy prototype; the
Dumkins of grim reality was unable to compete with the Dumkins of
fiction. Instead of "sending the ball far away over the heads of the
scouts; who just stooped low enough to let it fly over them," I caught
it just as it pitched on a rabbit-hole, and sent it straight up into the
air like a soaring rocket. "Right, right, I have it!" yelled bowler and
wicket-keeper simultaneously. "Run two, Podder; they'll never catch it!"
shouted Dumkins with all his might. "Catch it in your 'at, Bill!"
screamed the Edgeworth eleven. Never was such confusion! I was already
starting for the second run, whilst my stout fellow batsman was halfway
through the first, when the ball came down like a meteor, and, narrowly
shaving the luckless "Podder's" head, hit the ground with a loud thud
about five yards distant from the outstretched hands of the anxious
bowler, who collided with his ally, the wicket-keeper, in the middle of
the pitch. Half stunned by the shock, and disappointed at his want of
success in his attempt to "judge" the catch, the bowler had yet presence
of mind enough to seize the ball and hurl it madly at the stumps. But
the wicket-keeper being still _hors de combat_, it flew away towards the
spectators, and buried itself among the mowing grass. "Come six,
Podder!" I shouted, amid cries of "Keep on running!" "Run it out!" etc.,
from spectators and scouts alike. And run we did, for the umpire forgot
to call "lost ball," and we should have been running still but for the
ingenuity of one of our opponents; for, whilst all were busily engaged
in searching among the grass, a red-faced yokel stole up unawares, with
an innocent expression on his face, raced poor "Podder" down the pitch,
produced the ball from his trouser pocket, and knocked off the bails in
the nick of time. "Out," says Peregrine, amid a roar of laughter from
the whole field; and Mr. "Podder" had to go.
Now came the question how many runs should be scored, for I had passed
my fellow batsman in the race, having completed seven runs to his five.
Eventually it was decided to split the difference and call it a sixer;
the suggestion of a member of our side that seven should be scored to me
and five to Mr. "Podder" (making twelve in all) being rejected after
careful consideration.
Thus, from the first ball bowled in this historic match there arose the
whole of the remarkable events recorded above. Therein is shown the
complete performances with the bat of two renowned cricketers; for, alas
I in once more trying to play up to the form of Dumkins, I was bowled
"slick" the very next ball, "as hath been said or sung."
There was much good-natured chaff flying about during the match, but no
fighting and squabbling, save when a boundary hit was made, when the
batsman always shouted "Three runs," and the bowler "No, only one." The
scores were not high; but I remember that we won by three runs, that the
carpenter's son got a black eye, that we had tea in an old manor house
turned into an inn, and drove home in the glow of a glorious sunset, not
entirely displeased with our first experience of "prehistoric" cricket.
Some of the pleasantest matches we have ever taken part in have been
those at Bourton-on-the-Water. Owing to the very soft wicket which he
found on arriving, this place was once christened by a well-known
cricketer _Bourton-on-the-Bog_. Indeed, it is often a case of
Bourton-_under_-the-Water; but, in spite of a soft pitch, there is great
keenness and plenty of good-tempered rivalry about these matches.
Bourton is a truly delightful village. The Windrush, like the Coln at
Bibury, runs for some distance alongside of the village street.
The M.C.C., or "premier club"--as the sporting press delight to call the
famous institution at Lord's--generally get thoroughly well beaten by
the local club. For so small a place they certainly put a wonderfully
strong team into the field; on their own native "bog" they are fairly
invincible, though we fancy on the hard-baked clay at Lord's their
bowlers would lose a little of their cunning.
In the luncheon tent at Bourton there are usually more wasps than are
ever seen gathered together in one place; they come in thousands from
their nests in the banks of the Windrush.
If you are playing a match there, it is advisable to tuck your trousers
into your socks when you sit down to luncheon. This, together with the
fact that the tent has been known to blow down in the middle of
luncheon, makes these matches very lively and amusing. What more lively
scene could be imagined than a large tent with twenty-two cricketers and
a few hundred wasps hard at work eating and drinking; then, on the tent
suddenly collapsing, the said cricketers and the said wasps, mixed up
with chairs, tables, ham, beef, salad-dressing, and apple tart, and the
various ingredients of a cricket lunch, all struggling on the floor, and
striving in vain to find their way out as best they can? Fortunately, on
the only occasion that the tent blew down when we were present, it was
not a good wasp year.
Besides the matches at Bourton, there is plenty of cricket at
Cirencester, Northleach, and other centres in the Cotswolds. The "hunt"
matches are great institutions, even though hunting people as a rule do
not care for cricket, and invariably drop a catch. A good sportsman and
excellent fellow has lately presented a cup to be competed for by the
village clubs of this district. This, no doubt, will give a great
impetus to the game amongst all classes; our village club has already
been revived in order to compete. Our only fear with regard to the cup
competition is that when you get two elevens on to a ground, and two
umpires, none of whom know the rules (for cricket laws are the most
"misunderstandable" things in creation), the final tie will degenerate
into a free fight.
Be this as it may, anything that can make the greatest pastime of this
country popular in the "merrie Cotswolds" is a step in the right
direction. It is pleasing to watch boys and men hard at work practising
on summer evenings. The rougher the ground the more they like it.
Scorning pads and gloves, they "go in" to bat, and make Herculean
efforts to hit the ball. And this, with fast bowling and the bumpy
nature of the pitch, is a very difficult thing to do. They play on, long
after sunset,--the darker it gets, and the more dangerous to life and
limb the game becomes, the happier they are. We are bound to admit that
when we play with them, a good pitch is generally prepared. It would be
bad policy to endeavour to compete in the game they play, as we should
merely expose ourselves to ridicule, and one's reputation as the man who
has been known "to play in the papers," as they are accustomed to call
big county matches, would very soon be entirely lost.
I was much amused a few years ago, on arriving home after playing for
Somersetshire in some cricket matches, when Tom Peregrine made up to me
with "a face like a benediction," and asked if I was the gentleman who
had been playing "in the papers."
While on the subject of cricket, for some time past we have made
experiments of all sorts of cricket grounds, and have come to the
conclusion that the following is the best recipe to prepare a pitch on a
dry and bumpy ground. A week before your match get a wheelbarrow full of
clay, and put it into a water-cart, or any receptacle for holding water.
Having mixed your clay with water, keep pouring the mixture on to your
pitch, taking care that the stones and gravel which sink to the bottom
do not fall out. When you have emptied your water-cart, get some more
clay and water, and continue pouring it on to the ground until you have
covered a patch about twenty-two yards long and three yards wide, always
remembering not to empty out the sediment at the bottom of the
water-cart, for this will spoil all. Then, setting to work with your
roller, roll the clay and water into the ground. Never mind if it picks
up on to the roller: a little more water will soon put that to rights.
After an hour's rolling you will have a level and true cricket pitch,
requiring but two or three days' sun to make it hard and true as
asphalt. You may think you have killed the grass; but if you water your
pitch in the absence of rain the day after you have played on it, the
grass will not die. It is chiefly in Australia that cricket grounds are
treated in this way; they are dressed with mud off the harbours, and
rolled simultaneously. Such grounds are wonderfully true and durable.
If the pitch is naturally a clay one, it might be sufficient to use
water only, and roll at the same time; but for renovating a worn clay
pitch, a little strong loamy soil, washed in with water and rolled down
will fill up all the "chinks" and holes. It will make an old pitch as
good as new.
The reason that nine out of ten village grounds are bad and bumpy is
that they are not rolled soon enough after rain or after being watered.
Roll and water them simultaneously, and they will be much improved.
Another excellent plan is to soak the ground with clay and water, and
leave it alone for a week or ten days before rolling. Permanent benefit
will be done to the soil by this method. For golf greens and lawn-tennis
courts situated on light soil, loam is an indispensable dressing. Any
loamy substance will vastly improve the texture of a light soil and the
quality of the herbage. Yet it is most difficult to convince people of
this fact. We have known cases in which hundreds of pounds have been
expended on cricket grounds and golf greens when an application of clay
top-dressing would have put the whole thing to rights at the cost of a
few shillings. One committee had artificial wells made on every "putting
green" of their golf course, in order to have water handy for keeping
the turf cool and green. What better receptacle for water could they
have found than a top-dressing of half an inch of loam or clay,
retaining as it does every drop of moisture that falls in the shape of
dew or rain, instead of allowing it to percolate through like a sieve,
as is the case with an ordinary sandy soil? Yet this clay dressing,
while retaining water, becomes hard, firm, and as level as a billiard
table on the timely application of the roller.
Those who look after cricket grounds and the like have seldom any
acquaintance with the constitution of soils; they are apt to treat all,
whether sand, light loam, strong loam, heavy clay, or even peat, in
exactly the same way, instead of recollecting that, as in agriculture, a
judicious combination will alone give us that _ideal loam_ which
produces the best turf, and the best soil for every purpose. I am quite
convinced that our farmers do not realise how much worthless light land
may be improved by a dressing of clay or loam. Such dressings are
expensive without a doubt, but the amelioration of the soil is so marked
that in favourable localities the process ought to pay in the long run.
Turning to cricket in general, perhaps the modern game, as played on a
good wicket, is in every respect, save one, perfection. If only
something could be done to curtail the length of matches, and rid us of
that awful nuisance the poking, time-wasting batsman, there would be
little improvement possible.
"All the world's a stage," and even at cricket the analogy holds good.
Thus Shakespeare:
"As in a theatre the eyes of men,
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious."
So also one may say of some dull and lifeless cricketer who, after the
famous Gloucestershire hitter has made things merry for spectators and
scouts alike, "enters next":
"As in a cricket field the eyes of men,
After a well-_Graced_ player leaves the _sticks_,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his _batting_ to be tedious."
On the other hand, if we sow the wild oats of cricket--in other words,
if we risk everything for the fleeting satisfaction of a blind
"slog"--we shall be bowled, stumped, or caught out for a moral
certainty. It is only a matter of time.
Perhaps the addition of another stump might help towards the very
desirable end of shortening the length of matches, and thus enable more
amateurs to take part in them. I cannot agree with those who lament the
improved state of our best English cricket grounds; if only the batsmen
play a free game and do not waste time, the game is far more
entertaining for players and spectators alike, when a true wicket is
provided. The heroes of old,
"When Bird and Beldham, Budd, and such as they,--
Lord Frederick, too, once England's chief and flower,--
Astonished all who came to see them play,"
those "scorners of the ground" and of pads and gloves doubtless
displayed more _pluck_ on their rough, bumpy grounds than is now called
forth in facing the attack of Kortright, Mold, or Richardson. But on the
other hand, on rough grounds much is left to chance and _luck_; cricket,
as played on a billiard-table wicket certainly favours the batsman, but
it admits of a brilliancy and finish in the matter of style that are
impossible on the old-fashioned wicket. Whilst the modern bowler has
learnt extraordinary accuracy of pitch, the batsman has perfected the
art of "timing" the ball. And what a subtle, delicate art is correct
"timing"!--the skilful embodiment of thought in action, depending for
success on that absolute sympathy of hand and eye which only assiduous
practice, confidence, and a good digestion can give. And on uncertain,
treacherous ground confident play is never seen. A ball cannot be "cut"
or driven with any real brilliancy of style when there is a likelihood
of its abruptly "shooting" or bumping. No; if we would leave as little
as possible to chance, our grounds cannot be too good. Even from a
purely selfish point of view, apart from the welfare of our side, the
pleasure derived from a good "innings" on a first-rate cricket ground
is as great as that bestowed by any other physical amusement.
Perhaps one ought not to think of comparing the sport of fox-hunting,
with its extraordinary variety of incident and surroundings, the study
of a lifetime, to the game of cricket. At the same time, for actual
all-round enjoyment, and for economy, the game holds its own against all
amusements.
Bromley-Davenport has said that given a _good_ country and a _good_ fox,
_and_ a burning scent, the man on a _good_ horse with a good _start_,
for twenty or thirty minutes absorbs as much happiness into his mental
and physical organisation as human nature is capable of containing at
one time. This is very true. But how seldom the five necessary
conditions are forthcoming simultaneously the keen hunting man has
learnt from bitter experience. You will be lucky if the real good thing
comes off once for every ten days you hunt. In cricket a man is
dependent on his own quickness of hand and eye; in hunting there is that
vital contingency of the well-filled purse. "'Tis money that makes the
mare to go."
Then what a grand school is cricket for some of the most useful lessons
of life! Its extraordinary fluctuations are bound to teach us sooner
or later
"Rebus angustis animosus atque
Fortis appare."
The _rebus angustis_ are often painfully impressed on the memory by a
long sequence of "duck's eggs"; and how difficult is the _animosus atque
fortis appare_ when we return to the pavilion with a "pair of
spectacles" to our credit!
Then, again, cricketers are taught to preserve a mind
"Ab insolenti temperatam
Laetitiâ."
We must not permit the _laetitiâ insolenti_ to creep in when we have
made a big score. How often do we see young cricketers over-elated under
these circumstances, and suffering afterwards from temporary
over-confidence and consequent carelessness!
But we must have no more Horace, lest our readers exclaim, with Jack
Cade, "Away with him! away with him! he speaks _Latin_!"
Hope, energy, perseverance, and courage,--all these qualities are learnt
in our grand English game. There is always hope for the struggling
cricketer. In no other pursuit are energy and perseverance so absolutely
sure of bearing fruit, if we only stick to it long enough.
The fact is that cricket, like many other things, is but the image and
prototype of life in general. And the same qualities that, earnestly
cultivated in spite of repeated failure and disappointment, make good
cricketers lead ultimately to success in all the walks of life. In spite
of the improvement in grounds, cricket is still an excellent school for
teaching physical courage. Many grounds are somewhat rough and bumpy to
field on, beautifully smooth though they look from the pavilion. We have
only to stand "mid-off" or "point" on a cold day at the beginning of
May whilst a hard-hitting batsman, well set on a true wicket, is
driving or cutting ball after ball against our hands and shins, to
realise what a capital school for courage the game is!
How exacting is the critic in this matter of fielding! and how
delightfully simple the bowling looks from that admirably safe
vantage-ground, the pavilion! Just as to a man comfortably stationed in
the grand-stand at Aintree nothing looks easier than the way in which
the best horses in the world flit over the five-foot fences, leaving
them behind with scarcely an effort, their riders sitting quietly in the
saddle all the while, so does the pavilion critic pride himself on the
way he would have "cut" that short one instead of merely stopping it, or
blocked that simple ball that went straight on and bowled the wicket.
Everything that is well and gracefully performed appears easy to the
looker-on. But that ease and grace, whether in the racehorse or in the
man, has only been acquired by months and years of training
and practice.
It is seldom that the spectator is able to form a true and unbiassed
opinion as to the varied contingencies which lead to victory or defeat
in cricket. The actual players and the umpires are perhaps alone
qualified to judge to what extent the fluctuations of the game are
affected by the vagaries of weather and ground. For this reason it is
well to take newspaper criticism _cum grano salis_.
What is the cause of the extraordinary fluctuations of form which all
cricketers, from the greatest to the least, are more or less subject to?
It cannot be set down altogether to luck, for a run of bad luck, such
as all men have at times experienced, is often compatible with being in
the very best form. A man who is playing very well at the net often gets
out directly he goes in to bat in a match, whilst many a good player,
who tells you "he has not had a bat in his hand this season," in his
very first innings for the year makes a big score. In subsequent
innings's, oddly enough, he feels the want of net practice. _Confidence_
would seem to be the _sine quâ non_ for the successful batsman. Nothing
succeeds like success; and once fairly started on a sequence of big
scores, the cricketer goes on day by day piling up runs and _vires
acquirit eundo_.
Perhaps "being in form" does not depend so much on the state of the
digestion as on the state of the _mind_. Anxiety or excitement, fostered
by over-keenness, usually results in a blank score-sheet. Some men, like
horses, are totally unable to do themselves credit on great occasions.
They go off their feed, and are utterly out of sorts in consequence. On
the other hand, sheer force of will has often enabled men to make a big
score. Many a good batsman can recall occasions on which he made a
mental resolve on the morning of a match to make a century, and did it.
How curious it is that really good players, from staleness or some
unknown cause, occasionally become absolutely useless for a time! Every
fresh failure seems to bring more and more nervousness, until, from
sheer lack of confidence, their case becomes hopeless, and a child could
bowl them out. Ah well! we must not grumble at the ups and downs of the
finest game in creation: "every dog will have his day" sooner or later;
of that we may be sure.
And not the least of the advantages of cricket is the large number of
friends made on the tented field. For this reason the jolliest cricket
is undoubtedly that which is played by the various wandering clubs.
Whether you are fighting under the banner of the brotherhood whose motto
is "United though untied," [6] or under the flag of the "Red, Black, and
Gold," [7] or with any other of the many excellent clubs that abound
nowadays, you will have an enjoyable game, whether you make fifty runs
or a duck's egg.
[Footnote 6: The Free Foresters.]
[Footnote 7: The I Zingari.]
County cricket is nowadays a little over done. Two three-day matches a
week throughout the summer don't leave much time for other pursuits. A
liberal education at a good public school and university seems to be
thrown away if it is to be followed by five or six days a week at
cricket all through the summer year after year. Most of our best
amateurs realise this, and, knowing that if they go in for county
cricket at all they must play regularly, they give it up, and are
content to take a back seat. They do wisely, for let us always remember
that cricket is a game and not a business.
On the other hand, much good results from the presence in county cricket
of a leavening of gentle; for they prevent the further development of
professionalism. It is doubtless owing to the "piping times of peace"
England has enjoyed during the past fifty years that cricket has
developed to such an abnormal extent. The British public are
essentially hero worshippers, and especially do they worship men who
show manliness and pluck; and those feelings of respect and admiration
that it is to be hoped in more stirring times would be reserved for a
Nelson or a Wellington have been recently lavished on our Graces, our
Stoddarts, our Ranjitsinhjis, and our Steels.
As long as war is absent, and we "live at home at ease," so long will
our sports and pastimes flourish and increase. And long may they
flourish, more especially those in which the quality of courage is
essential for success! It will be a bad day for England when success in
our sports and pastimes no longer depends on the exercise of pluck and
manliness; when hunting gives place to bicycling, and cricket to golf;
when, in fact, the wholesome element of _danger_ is removed from our
recreation and pursuits. Should, in the near future, the long-talked-of
invasion of this country by a combination of European powers become an
accomplished fact, Englishmen may perchance be glad, as the cannon balls
and musket shots are whizzing round their heads, that on the mimic
battlefields of cricket, football, polo, and fox-hunting they learnt two
of the most useful lessons of life--coolness and courage.
[Illustration: Hawking 267.png]