what the ante-Homeric heroes were. He was the first single-wicket player of his day; for his bat and ball were equally to be dreaded. He beat at one innings the three Mitcham players, who had beat Robinson. He slew Hector who had vanquished Patroclus. His batting was (say is) as elegant as strong; his knowledge of every point of play complete. His fielding was astonishing in its activity, and in the space of ground he could cover; and his bowling was far more swift and tremendous than even Harris's. We would back him now for a score of balls (for his age will not let him continue) against any bowler in England.
Reader! do not be affronted! but you, whoever you are, married, or in single blessedness, have no idea of the real comfort of a winter evening fireside. In vain you talk of the pleasure of your dear young wife, and your pretty children (a boy and girl), and your good old aunt, good on account of her will, and your cat and cigar, and your Pope Joan and your elder wine. No! believe me it won't do. Peep through the shutter of my snug parlour, and behold me and envy. There is the small oak table (it is now nine), with the pint of Geneva and the jug of hot water, and the snuff-box smiling on it. One cricket bat, the practice one, lies on the small horsehair sofa, as occasionally necessary for exemplifications, and Harry Bentley's volume of the matches is open beside it. Do you see him? the master of the field. There he sits, mark his animation! his gesture! he is telling of a catch he made above 50 years since, and the ball is again in the air. He was taken instantly up to the Duchess of Richmond, of whose side he was, and she made a handicap of 6 guineas for him. She won hundreds by it. How my heart throbs, and my eyes glisten, and in what fearful suspense I sit, when he calls to life the ghost of a magnificent hit, fresh as the life, though half a century has intervened. I see the ball running at Moulsey Hurst, that fetched ten runs off Beldham's bat in 1787, as plainly as if it were in my own field.
