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.