COUNTRY-HOUSE CRICKET
By H. D. G. LEVESON-GOWER
I have not the least idea where my genial editor is going to put the
present chapter in this book, but I am willing to wager that it will
prove the lightest and most frivolous in his team. In the literary
menu I sincerely hope some one will find it the savoury of the meal,
because personally I like savouries best, and naturally I prefer my
own chapter to any other—parenthetically, I have not seen any of the
rest, except the one which I had a share in writing. No one has perhaps
played more country-house cricket than I have, and certainly no one has
derived more enjoyment from the matches. So I can write with agreeable
memories. But as the games are the least formal in the whole range of
cricket, therefore I feel this chapter needs no apology for being a
trifle desultory. We are now taking our ease after dinner, and chatting
in quite a happy-go-lucky way.
“What good times I have had in country-house cricket, to be sure,”
ought to be the observation of any one who has had much to do with such
games. If not, there has been something wrong with the individual. So
he is not you, gentle reader, and, if that is the test, most certainly
he is not me.
All the same, I have not enjoyed the prime of country-house cricket.
That must be a tradition among my seniors. Don’t you know the type of
jolly old buffer, aged anything between fifty-five and seventy, with a
big voice, bigger presence, and cheery disposition, when the gout does
not give him a twinge, who lights a cigar, pulls down his shirt-cuffs,
and has a twinkle in his eye at the very mention of country-house
cricket?
Men of this type made country-house cricket a thing of gorgeous
merriment. Possibly at college they had paid more attention to May Week
than to Plato, and to Eights Week than to Smalls. But they played for
their runs in life as keenly as they tried to make them at cricket,
and if they are not on the roll of fame, their names are in letters
of gold on the list of English gentlemen. And mark you, it’s no light
thing to be a real English gentleman. A goodly number of those who call
themselves such don’t behave as such, perhaps have no conception of the
true decencies of that most honourable walk in life. But that’s another
story, and my theme is cricket.
Moreover, I am not an old buffer, and I am going to have my say in this
chapter. So having patted the elder generation admiringly on the back,
I shall confine myself to my own.
Therefore I am compelled to repeat that, as far as I can judge, the
palmy days of country-house cricket were before my time. I have had a
rattling good experience myself, but each year I see some perceptible
shortening in of the amount of this class of cricket. Not that there
is not enough for anybody, in all conscience, so long as he is in the
swim. But it is more difficult to get just the right men to play, and
just the right places to play at. No one who ever met me would bring up
any charge of pessimism. I am merely stating a fact for the benefit,
say, of school-boys of to-day, who may not be able to get quite such a
golden time in just the same way as I and scores of my contemporaries.
[Illustration:
_From a Picture by_ _John Collet._
_MISS WICKET AND MISS TRIGGER._
“Miss Trigger you see is an excellent shot.
And Forty-five Notches Miss Wicket’s just got.”
]
The multiplication of clubs has not only spoilt to some extent the
fixtures of the elder clubs, but also prevents the younger ones
from getting exactly the matches they want. The next detrimental is
the multiplicity of first-class fixtures. In 1881 there were about
eighty such matches. Last year 154 matches were played in the county
competition, and there were quite seventy others which had claims
upon the compilers of statistics. The ratio of time available for a
genuine amateur good enough to play in matches of this standard to
snatch for the relaxation of an off-day country match therefore differs
perceptibly. Moreover, there is an even worse obstacle, and it is that,
nowadays, gentlemen take up professions much earlier. Men who are
going to practice at the Bar can no longer afford to be idle during
several summers after they have come down from the University. If they
are going into business, into the City or on the Stock Exchange, it
is, to-day, at the earliest possible date, not at the latest. Truly
the old order changes, for formerly where a young man might laugh and
disport himself in the days of his youth, now he must work to earn a
living wage in the struggle for life. Fourthly, there is the insidious
beguiling of golf, which attracts many a man from Saturday cricket. All
these changes are marked on the sheet which records the difficulties of
country-house cricket.
Going one step further, look at the Herculean task of collecting a
team. You must offer good enough matches to get the aid of really good
cricketers; and even then the bulk are off on tours. A mere village
match, be it ever so cheery and enjoyable, will not induce a man to
travel a long distance, to come to a strange place, where he knows no
one but his skipper. It is not human nature in the twentieth century,
and nowhere does human nature come out more plainly than at cricket.
Show me the spirit in which a man plays a cricket week, and I will tell
you his character; it is often easier to gauge than his true form,
which may be affected by ill-health or adverse weather, or even genuine
bad luck. A great deal too much is heard about luck in cricket. I do
not say it does not exist. For example, I would say Haigh had shocking
luck in not being chosen in a test match in 1902, and that Mr. J. H.
Brain had a real spell of bad luck when he scored 0, 1, 0, 0, 0, 2 in
Oxford _v._ Cambridge and the two Gentlemen _v._ Players matches of
1885, when at the very top of his form. But for the most part “luck” is
made the excuse for other things at cricket.
Let me sketch an ideal week of country-house cricket, such as I have
myself experienced several times. People are asked to stay in the house
who are all previously acquainted with one another, thereby removing
any stiffness and undue formality. There have been cases where, from
almost undue kindness, host and hostess have had a house full of
cricketers, many of whom they do not personally know, and the guests
themselves, however much they enjoy themselves, must be conscious of
the feeling that they are practically staying in a hotel, so little do
they really come in touch with their hospitable entertainers. I do like
a hostess to act as mother to the team, and for the old sportsman who
entertains us to stand umpire. A bevy of nice girls are needed to keep
us all civilised, and the merriment is then tremendous. Perhaps if a
match is over early there is a ladies’ cricket match. Anyhow, there is
a dance one night. On the others, songs, games, practical jokes, any
amount of happy, innocent nonsense, as well as perchance a flirtation
as hot as it is hopeless. Boy and girl alike know they may never meet
again, but they won’t waste time meanwhile. Another of the charms of
country-house weeks, if you are invited to the same one regularly,
is that year by year you meet a group of very nice people you never
perhaps see at any other time, but who inspire you with sincere regard.
“Don’t you remember?” and “How’s so-and-so?” enable you in five minutes
to pick up the old threads.
These form the background. The cricket itself ought to be of sufficient
importance to interest everybody, but not be allowed to degenerate into
an infatuation, and therefore a nuisance to the fair sex. The ground
ought not to be too good, for a perfect pitch takes the heart out of
the bowling, and long scoring can be over-indulged in. All the four
totals over 100 and under 200 was A. G. Steel’s ideal game, and it is
about the best. The games should have local interest, and should if
possible bring over one or two cricketers known to the house party.
As for the cricket lunches, most delightful of all Benedick meals, on
no account let hospitality spoil them. Champagne lunches are being
horribly overdone. Men do not play good cricket on Perrier Jouet,
followed by _creme de menthe_, with two big cigars topping a rich
and succulent menu. No, give us some big pies, cold chickens, a fine
sirloin of English beef, and a round of brawn, washed down by good ale
and luscious shandygaff. That is all that cricketers want, and kings
only fare worse. If the county folk drive over in the afternoon the
host is afforded an opportunity of providing an enjoyable diversion
for his neighbours. It is quite true that lots of men, unless they
know that they will be extremely well done, infinitely prefer to be
put up at a hotel in the nearest town. But that is partially because
of their bachelor shyness, and partially because they fear they will
be too hampered both in the matter of taking their ease and also about
tobacco. Formerly it was the exception to smoke, now the exception is
not to. I remember when Smokers _v._ Non-Smokers was played at Lord’s.
The former eleven all took the field with cigarettes in their mouths,
and freely declared that some of their opponents had not been lifelong
total abstainers in the matter of tobacco. It was a rattling good game,
all the same. Those big amateur matches at Lord’s had something of the
charm of country-house cricket on a large scale, thanks to a slight
relaxation of formality and a good deal of cheery hitting. The best
of these functions was the I Zingari jubilee match, when the famous
wanderers opposed the Gentlemen of England in 1895.
In connection with the immortal gipsy club, it is interesting to quote
its motto, “Keep your promise—keep your temper—keep your wicket up.”
Founded in 1835 under the title of the Beverley Club, it was renamed
by Sir Spencer Ponsonby Fane, who with the late Mr. Lorraine Baldwin
and my own uncle, Mr. Chandos Leigh, will be for ever associated with
its welfare. The rules are unique, and a trifle whimsical; for example:
“Entrance be nothing, and the annual subscription do not exceed the
entrance.” At the election of a new member, it was enjoined that the
candidate should take his stand at the wicket with or without a bat,
as the committee may decide. Being a vagrant body, the I Zingari have
never boasted a ground of their own, and it is a pity that more serious
cricket should have lessened the importance of their chief matches.
Now, having announced that I am going to be desultory, I propose to
reel off a batch of anecdotes. The bulk will be anonymous, which is a
pity, because individuality always gives point to a tale, but I have no
wish to hurt any one’s feelings.
Some years ago, at the period known as “when we were boys together,”
the late Lord Leconfield one summer holidays had a boys’ cricket week
at Petworth, having teams of Sussex, Surrey, and Hampshire youngsters
to play. He daily entertained all the teams at dinner, which, by the
way, was served on silver plates. Suddenly, in one of those silences
which sometimes fall on assembled eaters, a big lad shouted, loud
enough to be heard even by the late Lord Leconfield himself, “I do
hate eating off these beastly tin plates; in a decent house like this
they might give us china ones.” This lad never proved good enough
for first-class cricket, so please do not father the tale on to any
prominent run-getter.
A certain amateur of a team staying in a country house, who was a
bit of a wag, by the way, much annoyed the rather pompous host by
addressing the family butler as “waiter.” The skipper of the team
remonstrated, but with no result. At breakfast the cricketer in
question never seemed able to get the right dish; if he meant eggs, he
received kidneys, and so forth. This was because, the menu being in
French, he used to point at random to some item, not wishing to betray
his ignorance of the language. On the last morning of the week, when
the usual bill of fare was brought to him, he retorted in stentorian
accents, “Rats to you, waiter; I’ll fetch it for myself.”
I have had so many happy years of comradeship with “Plum” Warner that
he must forgive me if I spin a yarn or two about him. I was in the
habit of taking an eleven each year against Mr. Charles Goschen’s team,
an ideal country-house cricket match. To my dismay, for I was always
anxious to win, we were once decidedly weak in bowling, and we knew
Warner was playing for Mr. Charles Goschen’s eleven. So after grave
consultation we decided that, as we were never likely to bowl him out
by fair means, we would do it by foul. We pressed on him to accept an
invitation to stay overnight before the match. Now, my old friend is
most abstemious, but on this occasion the far-famed claret of our
host, dexterously administered by the opposing team, had considerable
effect. He was earnestly solicited to give his opinion on every vintage
we could find, and the spoon might have stood up in the whiskey dashed
with soda which was mixed for his nightcap. On the morrow, when he was
out before he ran into double figures, we decided that Bacchus was the
best bowler on our side.
The next story is not a country-house cricket story at all, but as it
is new in print, it may be allowed to slip in. It happened when I was
captain of Oxford, and I think the match was against the Australians.
Those who merely study cricket scores may not be aware that Warner has
a high opinion of his own persuasiveness as a change bowler. His actual
figures for life up to 1902, in first-class cricket, drawn from Mr.
Home Gordon’s _Cricket Form at a Glance_, are only three wickets for
196 runs, which only shows how bad is the judgment of modern captains.
If he had been permitted the persistency of K. S. Ranjitsinhji, he
would probably have captured more wickets. Last season, when he was
captain, he failed to disturb the bails to the tune of 51 runs, which
proves his modesty. I have known captains go on to bowl first and stay
on through the whole innings, but of such certainly is not my old
friend. However, in the match in question, when our opponents wanted
about six runs to win, and I don’t know how many wickets to fall,
I chucked the ball to “Plum.” “Ridley and Cobden won’t be in it,”
observed one of the fieldsmen, and in memorial was written this rhyme:—
Little Plum Warner stood in a corner,
Thinking he’d like to bowl.
The captain said, “Hum,
I _will_ put on Plum,
He may get me out of this hole.”
But sad to relate, he did not.
Captain Trevor, the popular “Dux,” used to tell a cheery story about
the demoralising effect of first-class cricket. Mr. A. S. Archer had
been a big scorer for the Incogs; then he went with Lord Hawke’s team
to the Cape, and on his return had changed his style, and could score
no more. Captain Trevor plucked up courage enough to suggest he should
forget that he had ever “figured in averages,” and should play in the
old way.
“You want the golf shot?”
“If you please.”
“And the tennis scoop towards third man?”
“Certainly.”
“And a pull?”
“Three in each over.”
“Right.”
He went to the wicket and made ninety without a chance that was
accepted.
[Illustration: _A COUNTRY HOUSE CRICKET MATCH._]
Any one who has much to do with getting up matches can tell eloquent
tales about being chucked. Perhaps nobody quite appreciates the force
of the parable in which they all with one accord began to make excuse,
until he is running a cricket week. This telegram was positively sent
by the man on whom everything depended, “Can’t come; am summoned on a
jury.” The wretched captain retorted, “Rot, you are not a householder,”
but he had to fill the vacancy. Not long ago Mr. A. D. Whatman, wrote
begging forgiveness, but the fact was, he was off fishing. As for the
accident which keeps a man who is passing through town “laid up and
unable to come on,” it is nearly as ancient and as annoying to the
manager as that hoary chestnut, “prevented by an illness in my family.”
However, these things will occur in the best-arranged teams.
There is a comfort and ease about country-house and minor cricket,
which you do not get in the charmed circle of first-class matches. The
good-humoured chaff is most healthy, and certainly tends to prevent
mannerisms, into which many engaged in prominent cricket find they are
apt to drop. Also the search-light of publicity is conspicuous by its
absence.
Next, I would like to quote a story which my old friend Mr. C. W.
Alcock relates, and which, I fancy, he personally overheard on a
tram: “No, Bill didn’t get much out of his day’s cricket. He had to
pay eight bob for his railway fare, and lost ‘is day’s screw, and was
fined a shilling for being late next morning, and ‘e didn’t get no
wickets, and ‘e missed four ketches, and ‘e got a couple of beautiful
blobs. He did feel sold, he did.” If anybody observes that is what
can be euphemistically described as a chestnut, my retort is, that
it will be new to a great many people. Certainly we all thought the
story of Mr. “Buns” Thornton making a mighty slog, and Mr. Bonnor
subsequently observing that he had a sister who could hit as hard,
was a hoary veteran. You will remember Mr. Thornton’s reply: “Why not
bring her over and marry her to Louis Hall? You could then combine the
two styles.” That was said at Scarborough, but this very story in the
cricket week of 1901 in that very town was hailed as a diverting and
fresh anecdote. Wherefore I take courage to proceed in my own garrulous
fashion.
Among the pleasantest of all country matches are the military weeks.
The play is brisk, hard hitting, keen fielding, usually a Tommy who
sends down expresses which it is a treat to cut to the boundary, and,
of course, the most unbounded hospitality and good-fellowship. Then
there is always the regimental band in the afternoon, and one can do
a little dance step to beguile the tedium of fielding, or should you
be dismissed for one of those conspicuous oval blobs, it is at least
consoling to retire to a tune from the last musical comedy. And of
course, at soldier fixtures, all the ladies of the garrison muster in
their brightest frocks, and I can truthfully say that a match where
none of the fair sex are spectators loses one ray of sunshine for me.
The follies of girls who do not understand the game may sound funny
set down in printer’s ink, but spoken by merry lips, they only provoke
laughter, while, as a matter of fact, lots of ladies understand cricket
quite as well as most of men do; moreover, they are singularly quick
at noticing idiosyncrasies in the players.
School tours are splendid things at the beginning of the holidays.
Eton Ramblers, Harrow Wanderers, Marlborough Blues, Old Malvernians,
Uppingham Rovers, Old Cliftonians, and last, but chief in my eyes,
Old Wykehamists—the very names cause a glow at our hearts. There you
get boys leaving school playing side by side with a schoolmaster or
two as comrades, and no longer _in statu pupillari_. The former gain
confidence, the latter rub off the corners which may have become rather
sharp during the half, and both are leavened by a further batch of old
boys who have names still respected at the school. The cricket is keen,
and the talk over the pipes after dinner is clean, healthy, and tends
to put them all on good terms with one another.
I purposed to have written quite a valuable treatise on clubs, but
when I dipped into the books, I either found that the serious matters
would be dry-as-dust at this stage of my article, or else that it
was difficult to collect information. So I shall merely emphasise
the cordiality of the sides which do battle each summer. I Zingari
come first to my thoughts, for not only have I the honour to wear
the red, yellow, and black, but my uncle, Mr. Chandos Leigh, is one
of the presiding potentates—more power to him. No longer do these
wanderers figure on the card of the Canterbury Week, but it is still
their festival. Theirs is the big tent, theirs the admirable theatrical
performances, and theirs the true traditions of the historic Week.
It is the most delightful function in county cricket to-day, just as
it was formerly the greatest boon in old-time cricket. I feel that
some of the graceful irresponsible matches which were contested at
Prince’s in the ‘seventies still cast a pleasant reflection on the Week
at the old minster town. Also, I heartily wish I Zingari could revive
that one-time match _v._ Gentlemen of England at Scarborough, but the
difficulty of collecting competent sides seems insurmountable. But
let no one think I Zingari do not keep up their pristine value. Have
they ever had a finer record than in 1902? It reads: matches played,
29; matches lost, 1, Silwood Park winning a one-day game by 46 runs.
So I think the spirit of I Zingari can look very beaming when she is
pleasantly embodied for the epilogue of the Kent festival.
It is impossible to run over the list of clubs. Free Foresters, of
course, recurs to memory—cheery, bright, with a military leaven, under
the admirable guardianship of Mr. E. Rutter. Their annual volume yields
an admirable statement of bustling, hard-fought cricket on many welcome
swards where reporters do not scribble nor the public give heed.
Amateur cricket owes a great debt to them, and also to the Incogniti,
in which the present governor of Jamaica has taken such keen interest.
With varying sides, but unvarying good-fellowship, these pilgrims of
cricket show how many withstand the attractions of golf, and prefer to
drive the leather rather than the Haskell.
Each University has one club noteworthy to the community at large.
Cambridge boasts the Quidnuncs, the cap of which is so familiar in
county matches, because hardly any old blue seems to wear his ‘Varsity
colours. Against Yorkshire at Lord’s in August 1902, four of the
Middlesex side wore those colours of dark blue with the narrow blue
stripe, these being Messrs. Cyril Foley, C. M. Wells, R. N. and J.
Douglas. Though it is limited to fifteen members in residence at
Cambridge, practically everybody who is tried for the eleven appears to
outsiders to be entitled to wear the caps, though no undergraduate in
his first year is eligible.
Of the Harlequins I must write more briefly than I should like. They
are very dear to me, and I had the honour in 1902 of being elected
Vice-President in succession to Mr. A. J. Webbe, who became President
in consequence of the death of Mr. C. J. B. Marsham, who had occupied
the position since the foundation of the club in 1845. One annual
meeting is held each year on the first day of the match with the
Gentlemen of England, when the elections take place. Only seventeen
members may be in residence, and no one can be put up as a candidate
until his fourth term. There is always one pleasant function, the
dinner given by that keenest supporter, Mr. T. B. Case. If the
Harlequins do not play so many matches as of yore, it must not be
ascribed to lack of enthusiasm, but to the more lengthy programme
of the Authentics, who possess a wider range of selection. The
Harlequin cap, in its bold contrast, has been seen on every ground,
and at Lord’s, to the end of their keen careers in the field, it was
invariably worn by two very fine Oxonian cricketers who never obtained
their colours, Messrs. T. S. Pearson and J. Robertson-Walker. Of yore,
half the Oxford eleven used to be seen arrayed in the coloured shirt of
the Harlequins, which was gaudy when new and looked shabby when it had
been for a short period the sport of the elements. I am not speaking by
book, but my impression is that Mr. “Punch” Phillipson and Mr. J. H.
Brain would be the two last who have donned the garment in first-class
cricket. Long life and unabating good fellowship to Harlequins, present
and future! There is every sign that the wish is destined to be
fulfilled.
The Authentics Cricket Club was founded by Everard Britten-Holmes, in
November 1883, who, from its birth in Brazenose College, Oxford, has
acted as its Hon. Secretary to the present day (1903), G. R. Askwith of
B.N.C. being its first Hon. Treasurer, then followed by H. Acland-Hood
of Balliol (1884-89). During the summer of 1884, arrangements were made
to tour during the summer vacation, and what was at first but a week’s
cricket, has become one of several months, and a membership then of 19
has become one of nearly 800.
During the winter of 1885, it was decided to place the club upon a more
solid and active basis, and a large gathering of prominent ‘Varsity
players and others was held at Oxford, a question at that time coming
up, as a suggestion, to include Cambridge ‘Varsity players and others,
when it was unanimously resolved and carried, that the club be called
“The Oxford University Authentics,” and confined to members of Oxford
University only. Special rules were drawn up for membership, etc.,
and many matters of detail arranged. More important matches were
played during the summer vacation, with a view of unearthing latent
cricket talent, and giving members an opportunity of being brought
more prominently before the cricket authorities at Oxford, and their
respective counties—an opportunity they could not otherwise then have
had. Above all, it had in view the keeping of old ‘Varsity cricketers
of the past in touch with the present, and the present in touch with
the future. Professor Case of Corpus Christi College—the well-known
old Oxford cricket blue of 1864, 1865, and 1867—readily consented to
become the President, and took much interest in the club, and to him we
owe its motto: “By Jove’s authentic fire.” It may be mentioned that the
name “Authentics” was given to the club by the founder, who, being a
musical enthusiast, coined the word “Authentics,” as from an authentic
cadence in music, and as derived from the Greek [Greek: authenteô], “to
rule”; and from Professor Case’s happy thought the colours of the club
were suggested—“Blue” for the sky, “Blood Red” for Jove’s arm, and
“Old Gold” for the lightning.
Reverting to country-house cricket—aye, and the observation does for
all club matches—the great aim is to induce those participating in
first-class cricket to don flannels in the minor game. There is one
great inducement, and let all managers take note of it. Tempt the
crack amateur by offering him plenty of opportunity to bowl. In county
cricket the amateur, with not a dozen exceptions in 1902—all I recall
are Messrs. F. S. Jackson, D. L. A. Jephson, E. M. Dowson, E. E. Steel,
J. R. Mason, W. M. Bradley, G. H. Simpson Hayward, W. W. Odell, C. M.
Wells, H. Hesketh Pritchard and B. J. T. Bosanquet—field out while the
professionals conduct the attack. To most amateurs bowling is a joy
all the sweeter for its rarity. The amateur will not resist the bait,
and will come if he possibly can. There is no cricketer so easy to get
on with, or who makes a house match go better, than a distinguished
amateur. The bulk are absolutely without “side,” and having learnt the
sterner discipline of first-class cricket, absolutely revel in their
sporting holiday, while the effect of their presence on the rest of the
side is electrical.
With that I conclude. I could write more, if I ventured to trespass
further on your attention. Should I have had the good fortune to divert
and not to bore, I shall consider myself the luckiest in this band of
writers, and after all, I have had the best of all topics. So, hurrah!
and long life to country-house cricket!
[Illustration: _From a Painting by Louis Belanger, belonging to H.M.
the King._
_A VILLAGE MATCH IN 1768._]
[Illustration]