BORDER CRICKET.
(BY ANDREW LANG.)
Mr. Gale has been saying his very pleasant say on country cricket in
England. A Border player, in his declining age, may be allowed to
make a few remarks on the game as it used to be played in ‘pleasant
Teviotdale,’ and generally from Berwick all along the Tweed. The first
time I ever saw ball and bat must have been about 1850. The gardener’s
boy and his friends were playing with home-made bats, made out of
firwood with the bark on, and with a gutta-percha ball. The game
instantly fascinated me, and when I once understood why the players ran
after making a hit, the essential difficulties of comprehension were
overcome. Already the border towns, Hawick, Kelso, Selkirk, Galashiels,
had their elevens. To a small boy the spectacle of the various red and
blue caps and shirts was very delightful. The grounds were, as a rule,
very rough and bad. Generally the play was on _haughs_, level pieces of
town-land beside the rivers. Then the manufacturers would encroach on
the cricket-field, and build a mill on it, and cricket would have to
seek new settlements. This was not the case at Hawick, where the Duke
of Buccleuch gave the town a capital ground, which is kept in very good
order.
In these early days, when one was only a small spectator, ay, and in
later days too, the great difficulty of cricket was that excellent
thing in itself, too much patriotism. Almost the whole population of
a town would come to the ground and take such a keen interest in the
fortunes of their side, that the other side, if it won, was in some
danger of rough handling. Probably no one was ever much hurt; indeed,
the squabbles were rather a sham fight than otherwise; but still, bad
feeling was caused by umpires’ decisions. Then relations would be
broken off between the clubs of different towns, and sometimes this
tedious hostility endured for years. The causes were the excess of
local feeling, and perhaps the too great patriotism of umpires. ‘Not
out,’ one of them said, when a member of the Oxford eleven, playing
for his town-club, was most emphatically infringing some rule. ‘I can
_not_ give Maister Tom out first ball,’ the umpire added, and his case
was common enough. Professional umpires, if they could be got, might be
expected to prove more satisfactory than excited amateurs who forgot to
look after no balls, or to count the number of balls in an over. But
even professionals, if they were attached to the club or school, were
not always the embodiment of justice.
The most exciting match, I think, in which I ever took part was for
Loretto against another school. In those days we were very weak
indeed. When our last man went in, second innings, we were still four
runs behind our opponent’s first score. This last man was extremely
short-sighted, and the game seemed over. But his partner, a very
steady player, kept the bowling, and put on some thirty-eight more.
We put our adversaries in to get this, and had lowered eight wickets
for twenty-eight. I was bowling, and appealed to the umpire of our
opponents for a palpable catch at wicket. ‘Not out!’ Next ball the
batsman was caught at long-stop, and a fielder triumphantly shouted,
‘Well, how’s _that_?’
‘Not out,’ replied the professional again, and we lost the match by two
wickets.
If this had happened on the Border there would have been trouble, and
perhaps the two clubs would not have met again for years. I have no
doubt that a more equable feeling has come in among those clubs which
retained a good deal of the sentiments of rival clans. The Borderers
played too much as if we were still in the days of Scotts and Carrs,
and as if it were still our purpose
To tame the Unicorn’s pride,
Exalt the Crescent and the Star.
Sir Walter Scott encouraged this ardour at football when he caused
to be unfurled, for the first time since 1633, the ancient banner of
Buccleuch, with its broidered motto ‘Bellendaine.’ The dalesmen, the
people from the waters of Yarrow, Ettrick, and Teviot, played against
the souters of Selkirk, all across country, the goals being Ettrick
and Yarrow. The townsmen scored the first goal, when the Galashiels
folk came in as allies of the shepherds, and helped them to win a goal.
‘Then began a murder grim and great,’ and Scott himself was mobbed in
the evening. But he knew how to turn wrath into laughter.
‘’Tis sixty years since,’ and more, but this perfervid ardour, while it
makes Border cricket very exciting, is perhaps even now a trifle too
warm. The great idea, perhaps, in all country cricket is not so much to
have a pleasant day’s sport, win or lose, but to win merely. Men play
for victory, as Dr. Johnson talked, rather than for cricket. This has
its advantages; it conduces to earnestness. But it does not invariably
promote the friendliness of a friendly game.
Border cricket is very pleasant, because it is played in such a
pleasant country. You see the angler going to Tweedside, or Teviot,
and pausing to watch the game as he strolls by the cricket-ground. The
hills lie all around, these old, unmoved, unchangeable spectators of
man’s tragedy and sport. The broken towers of Melrose or Jedburgh or
Kelso look down on you. They used to ‘look down,’ as well they might,
on very bad wickets. Thanks to this circumstance, the present writer,
for the first and only time in his existence, once did the ‘hat trick’
at Jedburgh, and took three wickets with three consecutive balls. Now
the grounds are better, and the scores longer, but not too long. You
seldom hear of 300 in one innings on the Border.
In my time the bowling was roundhand, and pretty straight and to a
length, as a general rule. Perhaps, or rather certainly, the proudest
day of my existence was when I was at home for the holidays, and was
chosen to play, and bowl, for the town eleven against Hawick. I have
the score still, and it appears that I made havoc among Elliots,
Leydens, and Drydens. But they were too strong for our Scotts,
Johnstons, and Douglasses: it is a pleasure to write the old names
of the Border clans in connection with cricket. The batting was not
nearly so good then as it is now; professional instruction was almost
unknown. Men blocked timidly, and we had only one great hitter, Mr.
John Douglas; but how gallantly he lifted the soaring ball by the banks
of Ettrick! At that time we had a kind of family team, composed of
brothers and other boys, so small that we called ourselves _Les Enfants
Perdus_. The name was appropriate enough. I think we only once won a
match, and that victory was achieved over Melrose. But we kept the
game going on and played in all weathers, and on any kind of wickets.
Very small children would occasionally toddle up and bowl when the
elder members of the family were knocked off. Finally, as they grew in
stature, the team developed into ‘The Eccentric Flamingoes,’ then the
only wandering Border club. We wore black and red curiously disposed,
and had a good many Oxford members. The Flamingoes, coming down from
Oxford, full of pride, had once a dreadful day on the Edinburgh Academy
Ground. We were playing the School, which made a portentous score, and
I particularly remember that Mr. T. R. Marshall, probably the best
Scotch bat who ever played, and then a boy, hit two sixes and a five
off three consecutive balls. It is a very great pity that this Border
bat is so seldom seen at Lords’; his average for M.C.C. in 1886 was 85.
The Flamingoes lasted for some years, and played all Teviotdale and
Tweedside.
In those days we heard little of Dumfries and Galloway cricket, into
which Steels, Tylecotes, and Studds have lately infused much life. In
recent years, Lord Dalkeith, Lord George Scott, and Mr. Maxwell Scott,
of Abbotsford, have contributed very much to the growth of Border
cricket. Money has never been very plentiful north of Tweed, and when
scarcely any but artisans played, the clubs could not afford good
grounds, or much professional instruction. In these respects there
has been improvement. Perhaps the boys’ cricket was not sufficiently
watched and encouraged. Veterans used to linger on the stage with a
mythical halo round them of their great deeds in the Sixties. Perhaps
the rising generation is now more quickly promoted, and better coached
than of old. I feel a hesitation in offering any criticism because I
had only one quality of a cricketer, enthusiasm, combined for a year
or two with some twist from leg. But, if I never was anything of an
expert, my heart hath always been with those old happy scenes and happy
days of struggling cricket. What jolly journeys we had, driving under
the triple crest of Eildon to Kelso, or down Tweed to Galashiels, or
over the windy moor to Hawick! How keen we were, and how carried beyond
ourselves with joy in the success of a sturdy slogger, or a brilliant
field! There were sudden and astonishing developments of genius. Does
J. J. A., among his savages on the other side of the globe, remember
how he once took to witching the world by making incredible and almost
impossible catches? _Audisne, Amphiarae?_ Michael Russell Wyer, I am
sure, among Parsee cricketers, has not forgotten his swashing blow. But
one of whom the poet declared that he would
Push into Indus, into Ganges’ flood,
While all Calcutta sings the praise of Budd,[34]
will no more ‘push leg balls among the slips.’
No longer make a wild and wondrous score,
And poke where never mortal poked before.
This is the melancholy of mortal things.
As Mr. Prowse sang
The game we have not strength to play
Seems somehow better than before.
Our wickets keep falling in this life. One after the other goes down.
They are becoming few who joined in those Border matches where there
was but one lady spectator, when we made such infrequent runs, and
often dropped a catch, but never lost heart, never lost pleasure in the
game. Some of them may read this, and remember old friends gone, old
games played, old pewters drained, old pipes smoked, old stories told,
remember the leg-hitting of Jack Grey, the bowling of Bill Dryden and
of Clement Glassford, the sturdy defence of William Forman. And he who
writes, recalling that simple delight and good fellowship, recalling
those kind faces and merry days in the old land of Walter Scott, may
make his confession, and may say that such years were worth living
for, and that neither study, nor praise, nor any other pleasure has
equalled, or can equal, the joy of having been young and a cricketer,
where
The oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish best at home in the North Countrie.
* * * * *
It is long since the writer has played in Border cricket, or even
seen the game in those quarters. A more modern sportsman, and an
infinitely better player, has kindly drawn up a few observations made
in recent years. On the whole, nothing, it seems, is altered. The game
is played mainly, as of old, by the stalwart artisans. There is little
patronage from the counties, and the middle classes are sunk in golf.
Money, therefore, is scarce, and, while very fair wickets are provided,
the out-fielder is harassed by difficulties of ground in many cases.
Time also is scarce, and thus lack of wealth prevents the Borderers
from doing themselves justice. At Langholm the family of the Duke of
Buccleuch, ‘the Langholm Lordies,’ set an example, and, at Dalbeattie
in Galloway, Steels, as of old, Studds, and Tylecotes play in autumn.
Mr. Maxwell of Glenlee, now dead, and Mr. Maxwell Scott of Abbotsford
were recently patrons of the game. On the whole, however, money and
encouragement are sadly lacking.
The play, I gather, has improved, and the employment of professionals
has doubtless contributed to this result. There is a danger, however,
of depending too much on the professionals, who take part in the
matches between the clubs. The difficulties of umpiring are overcome in
matches for the Border Cup by the assistance of strangers, who truly
and indifferently minister justice. In other matches, I am told, the
umpires, being members of the rival clubs, are apt to suffer from ‘the
personal bias,’ and from accesses of local patriotism. This defect is
not absolutely confined to the Border. Football, a game entailing less
expenditure of money and time, is naturally better rooted and more
flourishing than cricket. It is also less dependent on weather. On the
whole, improvement both in skill and in the wickets is to be noted, and
I conceive that a match is much less likely than of old to degenerate
into a Border brawl. But cricket is not the national game of the
country which gave birth to golf and can hold her own at football.
FOOTNOTES:
[34] The maker of a formidable bat.