The Hambledon Men/Review of John Nyren's Book

NYREN'S BOOK^[1]

By the Rev. John Mitford.

It was somewhere between the years 1770 and 1780, that a great and decisive improvement took place, and that cricket first began to assume that truly skilful and scientific character which it now possesses. The pretty and sequestered village of Hambledon, in Hants, was the nursery of the best players; the down of Broad Halfpenny the arena of their glory,—the Marathon ennobled by their victories, and sometimes enriched with their blood.^[2] At that time the Duke of Dorset and Sir Horace Mann were the great patrons and promoters of the game. Great as many of them were, and deserving a more lasting fame than they have attained, the name of John Small shines out in pre-eminent lustre. Him followed Brett, the tremendous bowler, and Barber and Hogsflesh, whose bowling was also admirable,—they had a high delivery and certain lengths; and he must be a more than common batter who can stand long against such confounding perplexities. Tom Sueter had the eye of an eagle, and a giant's paw; and when he rushed in to meet the ball, his stroke was certain, decisive, and destructive. Off went the ball, as if fired from a gun; and woe to those opposed to him in the game! But we must hasten on.—These great men (for great they truly were!) have long been where sound of ball, or sight of bat, or shout of applauding friends, will never reach them again. They lie side by side in the churchyard of Hambledon, and many a sigh have we breathed over their peaceful graves. We must pass over George Leer, called ('Little George', but great in everything but stature; and 'Edward Aburrow', who—nobody knows why—was always called 'Curry'; and Peter Steward, for his spruceness called 'Buck'. We cannot say 'they had no poet, and they died'; for their names are consecrated in the following lines:

Buck, Curry, and Hogsflesh, Barber and Brett,
Whose swiftness in bowling was ne'er equall'd yet,
I had almost forgot (they deserve a large bumper)
Little George the long stop, and Tom Sueter the stumper.

Such were the chief heroes, the valour of whose arms sustained the fate of the modern Troy; but opposed to them are the names of enemies arrayed in formidable phalanx! Come forth! thou pride of Surrey! thou prince of the ancient bowlers! thou man of iron nerve, and never-failing eye. Come forth, Tom Lumpy!^[3] come forth from the well-filled cellar, and well-stored larder, of thy first and greatest patron the Earl of Tankerville,—bring with thee thy companions in fame, Shock White, and Frame, and Johnny Wood and Miller the gamekeeper, whose eye was alike sure at a woodcock or a ball.

Reader! if thou hast any love or knowledge of this noble game,—if thou hast any delight in traversing the ancient fields of glory, or visiting the scenes of departed genius, or hanging a slender wreath on the monument of men who deserved a richer sepulchre,—shut your eyes for one moment to the follies and vanities of passing events, and believe yourself walking in a fine summer morning on the down of Broad Halfpenny, waiting the commencement of a match. You know the scenery of that secluded vale; the fine undulating sweep of its beechen forests, the beautiful and variegated turf, the glittering of the ocean, the blue hills of the Isle of Wight looming in the distance, and the elmy gardens and half-wild orchards sprinkled in the bottom.

Well! believe yourself transported there;—and now ten (the old hour, before modern fashion and indolence had superseded it) has struck; a few cricketers in their white dress,^[4] and numerous groups of farmers and rustics, have assembled from grange and farm, from Exton down to the hills of Petersfield,—and now all is bustle and expectation. A shout!—turn to the right! You may instantly know who it is; Noah Mann from North Chapel in Sussex, who lately joined the club, and who rides at least twenty miles every Tuesday to practise. Look at those handkerchiefs on the ground! Riding at full speed, he stoops down, and collects every one without effort. Mann was a severe hitter. One stroke of his is even now remembered, in which he got the immense number of ten runs. He was short, and black as a gipsy, broad chest, large hips, and spider legs. He never played with a hat; his complexion benefited by the Sun. The roar that followed Mann's celebrated hit never is to be forgotten, it was like the rushing of a cataract; it came pouring from a thousand lungs. And there is his namesake and opponent, Sir Horace, walking about outside the ground, cutting down the daisies with his stick—as gentle he, as the simple flowers which he was strewing beside him!

That stout, well-made man in with Mann is James Aylward, the farmer. Glory and honour be to him. Aylward once stood in two whole days, and scored a hundred and sixty-seven runs. Soon after, he was seen to have been called by Sir Horace Mann into a corner of the field; a short conversation took place between them; it was mysterious, in an under-tone, with short glances of circumspection; but it was decisive: they soon parted; and never after was James Aylward seen at the Hambledon Club. The next time he was arrayed, was among its opponents, and fighting under Sir Horace's banners. When Aylward affected grandeur, he used to call for a lemon after he had been in but a short time: this was a high piece of affectation for a farmer,—it was a fine touch of the heroic.

That man who now takes the bat, has not, perhaps, nor ever will have, a superior. Stand up, Tom Walker! show thy scraggy frame, thy apple-John face, thy spiderlegs, thick at the ankles as at the hips, thy knuckles like the bark of the Hainault oak! Tom had neither flesh, nor blood, nor skin. He was all muscle, tendon, gristle, covered with the hide of the rhinoceros. You might as well attempt to get Wellington from a field of battle, or Bentley from a Greek poet, as to get Tom from his wicket. Once Lord Frederick Beauclerk was bowling to him; four fine length balls one after the other were sent in with his Lordship's finished science; down they all went before the bat, and off went his Lordship's white hat, as usual, calling him 'a confounded old beast'.—(I doant care nothing whatsomeer ee zays,' quoth Tom, and on he went, laying his Lordship down in the finest style and the coolest temper. Tom was a farmer, and his land lay near the Devil's Punch-bowl.

Next came John Wells called 'Honest John Wells'! he was a baker at Farnham, a well-set man, short, and stout like a cob. He was a good bowler and steady batter, and a good servant of all work; but we must hasten on, for we are at length arrived at the tent of Achilles himself. Stop, reader, and look, if thou art a cricketer, with reverence and awe on that venerable and aged form! These are the remains of the once great, glorious, and unrivalled William Beldham, called for love and respect, and for his flaxen locks and his fair

AN EARLY MATCH ON A NATURAL PITCH

(From Games and Sports, 1837)

complexion, 'Silver Billy '. Beldham was a close-set, active man, about five feet eight inches. Never was such a player! so safe, so brilliant, so quick, so circumspect; so able in counsel, so active in the field; in deliberation so judicious, in execution so tremendous. It mattered not to him who bowled, or how he bowled, fast or slow, high or low, straight or bias; away flew the ball from his bat, like an eagle on the wing. It was a study for Phidias to see Beldham rise to strike; the grandeur of the attitude, the settled composure of the look, the piercing lightning of the eye, the rapid glance of the bat, were electrical. Men's hearts throbbed within them, their cheeks turned pale and red. Michael Angelo should have painted him. Beldham was great in every hit, but his peculiar glory was the cut. Here he stood with no man beside him, the laurel was all his own; it was like the cut of a racket. His wrist seemed to turn on springs of the finest steel. He took the ball, as Burke did the House of Commons, between wind and water; not a moment too soon or late. Beldham still survives. He lives near Farnham; and in his kitchen, black with age, but, like himself, still untouched with worms, hangs the trophy of his victories; the delight of his youth, the exercise of his manhood, and the glory of his age—his BAT. Reader! believe me, when I tell you I trembled when I touched it; it seemed an act of profaneness, of violation. I pressed it to my lips, and returned it to its sanctuary.

The last, the 'Ultimus Romanorum', we can find room to commemorate, is David Harris. Who knows not David Harris? the finest bowler whom the world ever rejoiced in when living, or lamented over when dead. Harris was by trade a potter, and lived at Odiham in Hants, an honest, plain-faced (in two senses), worthy man. 'Good David Harris' he was called; of strict principle, high honour, inflexible integrity; a character on which scandal or calumny never dared to breathe. A good cricketer, like a good orator, must be an honest man; but what are orators compared to the men of cricket. There have been a hundred, a thousand orators; there never was but one David Harris. Many men can make good speeches, but few men can deliver a good ball. Many men can throw down a strong enemy, but Harris could overthrow the strongest wicket. Cicero once undermined the conspiracy of Catiline; and Harris once laid prostrate even the stumps of Beldham.

It is said that it is utterly impossible to convey with the pen an idea of the grand effect of Harris's bowling. His attitude, when preparing to deliver the ball, was masculine, erect, and appalling. First, he stood like a soldier at drill, upright. Then with a graceful and elegant curve, he raised the fatal ball to his forehead, and drawing back his right foot, started off. Woe be to the unlucky wight who did not know how to stop these cannonades! his fingers would be ground to dust against the bat, his bones pulverized, and his blood scattered over the field. Lord F. Beauclerk has been heard to say, that Harris's bowling was one of the grandest sights in the universe. Like the Pantheon, in Akenside's Hymn, it was ' simply and severely great'. Harris was terribly afflicted with the gout; it was at length difficult for him to stand; a great armchair was therefore always brought into the field, and after the delivery of the ball, the hero sat down in his own calm and simple grandeur, and reposed. A fine tribute this, to his superiority, even amid the tortures of disease!

If, like Sallust and Hume, we may venture our comparison of the relative merits of two illustrious men, we should say, in contrasting Harris with Lumpy that,

Harris always chose a ground when pitching a wicket, where his ball would rise. Lumpy endeavoured to gain the advantage of a declivity where his might shoot.

Harris considered his partner's wicket as carefully as his own. Lumpy attended only to himself.

Lumpy's ball was as well pitched as Harris's, but delivered lower, and never got up so high. Lumpy was also a pace or two slower.

Lumpy gained more wickets than Harris; but then fewer notches were got from Harris's bowling; and more players were caught out. Now and then a great batter, as Fennex, or Beldham, would beat Lumpy entirely; but Harris was always great, and always to be feared.

We must now draw our brief memoirs to a close. Unwillingly do we drop the pen. Very pleasant has our task been, delightful our recollections. Farewell, ye smiling fields of Hambledon and Windmill Hill! Farewell ye thymy pastures of our beloved Hampshire, and farewell ye spirits of the brave, who still hover over the fields of your inheritance. Great and illustrious eleven! fare ye well! in these fleeting pages at least, your names shall be enrolled. What would life be, deprived of the recollection of you? Troy has fallen, and Thebes is a ruin. The pride of Athens is decayed, and Rome is crumbling to the dust. The philosophy of Bacon is wearing out; and the victories of Marlborough have been overshadowed by fresher laurels. All is vanity but cricket; all is sinking in oblivion but you. Greatest of all elevens, fare ye well!

That the scientific display of Cricket we now see, was not made till about the time of these Great Men is clear for this reason; that we can trace to them most of the fine inventive parts of the science. Tom Walker laid down a bail-ball, in a style peculiarly his own, and that all have since attempted to follow. Beldham was the first person who cut the same kind of ball, and therefore made an improvement on the former plan; for he obtained some runs, while the former was merely content to stop the ball. That fine accomplished old cricketer Fennex has often (as we sat together in a winter evening over our gin and water, discoursing even till the morning star appeared, on our beloved science), I say he has often told us, that he was the first person who ever went in and laid down a ball before it had time to rise to the bail. And we have been much amused by his informing us of the astonishment and indignation of his father, who was a good old batsman, when he first beheld this innovation. 'Hey! hey! boy! what is this? do you call that play?' But he soon became sensible of the safety and excellence of the practice; which saves alike the fingers and the wickets from a first-rate top-bailer. Sueter was the first wicket-keeper; that part of the game having not been attended to before; and we believe that Boxall was the first who by a turn of the wrist gave his balls a twist to the wicket. Freemantle brought the province of long-stop at once to perfection, never suffering a ball to pass, and covering a great deal of ground. There were some good men besides these. Boorman, and Booker, and Ring, and Purchase, and Clifford (the last excellent as a bowler), and Crosoer, cum multis aliis. The match is even now remembered when the predecessors of these men, the old players (including the elder Small), were brought against the improved Hambledon school, and beaten in a masterly and decisive manner.

Some of Tom Walker's scores about 1786, were superb. In a match played against Kent and White Conduit Club (which was the father of the Mary-la-bonne), Tom scored the amazing number of 95 runs in his first innings, and brought his bat out with him; in the second he gained 102. Beldham's name first appears on the 20th June 1787, on the side of England, against the White Conduit Club, with six picked men. In his second innings he obtained 63 runs. Beldham never could keep his bat, his eyes, or his legs still, and he was generally run out, as in this instance. He would get 20 runs, while Tom Walker got 2, though they scored pretty even at the end. Harry Walker^[5] was also very quick in getting up his score; but not so safe as his illustrious brother, whom he imitated, reverenced, and loved. In looking over carefully the list of matches for twenty years, we shall find no scores on the average at all approaching those of the elder Walker and Beldham; thus clearly evincing their superiority. But we must hasten on in our narrative, and reluctantly close the gates of history on these two unrivalled men.

Beldham's name appeared for the last time in a match played in Lord's Ground, on the 23rd July, 1821, of the Players of England against the Club. It was a match dignified by the fine play of Beagley, who gained 113 runs without being out. Beldham brought away his bat garlanded with the victories of forty years, with a score of 23, and his innings still unfinished. Tom Walker resigned the combat on the 25th of June, 1812, on Highdown Hill in Sussex. Others' names had appeared; his old compeers, the veterans by whose side he had so long frowned, stamped, and grunted^[6], were gone; and it is a relief to us to see him disappear; how we should shudder to read the speeches of William Pitt, and Charles Fox, in answer to Messrs. Hume, Cobbett, and Faithfull: to see their names in conjunction, would be profanation; the same chamber could not hold them; they ought not to speak the same language. Madame Vestris, or Mrs. Honey (Honey sweeter than the sweetest produce of Narbonne), might as well be shut up in a cage with monkeys, as the son of Chatham stand by the side of Messrs. Evans and Warburton; or the old hero of Hambledon rank with the Ladbrokes and Lowthers of modern days.

Fennex, who (thank God!) is still alive, and who at 76 will bring down any wicket that is not carefully guarded, has been providentially preserved to show us 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.

THE FIELD FOR SINGLE WICKET

(From Games and Sports 1837)

Then the trick he played Butler Danvers, when he came into the field dressed as a countryman, and was taken in unconsciously, merely to fill up the eleven;—the sly look of Lord Winchelsea, as sly and as black as a gipsy's (the Finches were all black), (it had been planned between them); his delight, when they sent him down to the tent, to select whatever dress he chose to wear: his joy, when he heard 'Countryman, you take the bat to begin with', and the consternation among the enemy's forces, when eighty notches were scored by him. You should hear of the day, when Manchester saw the flower of youth fall before him; when he might have won thousands, if he had had them to stake. Or that single combat (nor Europe nor Asia ever beheld such, never seen from the Sigaean promontory, or on the banks of Simois) that even now (twice twenty years have passed since) will alone immortalize the plains of Wisbech. Midnight sounds in vain. Politics, scandal, Tories, Whigs, my Lord Grey, and the Bishop of Peterborough, and the last story about the Maids of Honour, and Lady Farquhar's splendid breakfast, and the unknown tongues, all solicit attention in vain; they seem as nothing, idle all and without interest; one wonders how the world can trouble itself about such toys. We fill the tumblers anew; and for the hundredth time I ask, 'What was young Small's favourite hit? How did John Wells get his runs?' Behold the advantage, ye parents, of bringing up your sons (why not your daughters?) to the love of subjects which cannot be exhausted, which never tire.

But we must hasten on.—The first time I see Lord Fred. Beauclerk's name, is on the 2nd June, 1791. He played with Marylebourn against Kent. Fennex and his Lordship bowled, and they beat their adversaries by one innings and 113 runs; in fact, it appears by the score, that Fennex, Beauclerk, and Beldham, got out the whole field between them. For thirty years after this, his Lordship stood as the most accomplished cricketer in England. In batting he was brought up in the school of Beldham, and he was quite as fine. He introduced a slow home-and-easy kind of bowling, which was very effective; till Saunders and Beagley, and the new players, destroyed it, by rushing in, and driving it away. Though his Lordship has given up the bat some years, we have seen enough of his practice to say that his execution was eminently beautiful, and certainly not equalled now.

Excepting the name of Hammond, the famous wicketkeeper, and Ray (a good batter), among the players, and those of Tufton, Col. Upton, and Bligh, among the gentlemen, the old list of players remained much the same, till about the year 1804. Then the names of Aislabie (the father of cricket, and the great fautor of the Marylabonne Club), and of Budd, first appear. The latter gentleman resigned last year, after near thirty years' display of the finest science; and his departure is much lamented. His fielding was excellent, his hits strong and scientific; but his bowling, once good, was no longer of avail. A little before this, the name of Lambert first appears among those of the players. Take him in every department of the game, we believe he has been esteemed as the first player that ever appeared. His batting was straightforward, and driving, a good deal resembling that of Mr. Ward; who appears to have been instructed by him. His bowling was excellent, and had a considerable twist. A splendid single-wicket match appears, in 1806, to have been played by him, Robinson, and Beldham, against Bennett, Fennex, and Lord F. Beauclerk, and won by the former. The play must have been very fine, for from 117 hits Lambert obtained only 13 runs.

[I break the article here because Mr. Mitford goes on to speak only of his contemporaries—Lillywhite, Caldecourt, Harenc, Marsden and Fuller Pilch (his particular hero), and these belong to the new round-arm age, and therefore, however great, are interlopers here. But if a time should come . . . . . . E. V. L.]

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1. A review of The Young Cricketer's Tutor in the Gentleman's Magazine, July and September, 1833. E. V. L.
2. The blood of a cricketer is seldom, however, shed from any part of his body but his fingers; but the fingers of an old cricketer, so scarred, so bent, so shattered, so indented, so contorted, so venerable! are enough to bring tears of envy and emulation from any eye, we are acquainted with such a pair of hands, 'if hands they may be called, that shape have none.'
3. His real name was Stevens.
4. The old cricketers were dressed differently from the modern. The gentlemen always played in breeches and silk stockings; the players, as Lord Winchelsea's, wore hats with gold binding, and ribbons of particular colour. The present dress is inconvenient as well as unbecoming; for trowsers may be in the way of the ball. Mr. Budd was the last cricketer who wore the old dress.
5. Harry Walker was a left-handed player; so was Harris, Freemantle, Aylward, Brazier, and Clifford; so that they had some fine bowlers among them. At this day, our left-handed batters are superb; but they have no bowlers of eminence. It is however proposed to make a match of the left-handed against All England, next July. There is a glory accompanying the names of all. Mills of Kent, Hayward of Cambridge, Marsden, Searle, lead the van.
6. Tom Walker would never speak to any one, or give any answer when he was in at the wicket. His tongue was tied, as his soul and body were surrendered to the struggle. But he used to give such grunt, if perchance a shooting ball was too quick for him and brought him down, as I have heard described to be very like that of a broken-winded horse, only of a deeper bass.