DEATH AND THE CRICKETER. "Hold, cricketer! your game has now been long, THIS allegorical representation of Time and Death engaged at cricket, though of general application, has a more especial reference to an individual, whose skill at an advanced age gave rise to the design, which was suggested by a friend and companion. The following sketch of his character is given by one who knew him long and well. Poor T-B! little did I image to myself in your boyish days of fifty, that I should have witnessed the wreck of so much buoyant mirth and spirits-that I should have seen a kindness of heart bordering on childish weakness, sinking beneath the pressure (not of misfortune, or the common calamities of life, but) of an ill-placed confidence, and the "sharp-toothed unkindness of a trusted friend."-But a truce to this-Death has not indeed quite bowled thee out; but Time has taken thy wicket—and thou art now only a looker-on. T- Blike many other men, had his hobby,-it was cricket; but then he had his hacks for ordinary occasions. There was his pugilistic hack,—his game of draughts,—his game, too, of marbles-yes-insignificant as these playthings may seem in the eyes of the sober, the learned, and the scientific, it would have amazed them to see the steadiness of his hand-the correctness of his eye-the certainty of his shot. Not the most skilful billiard-player could pocket his ball under the most adverse circumstances, better than could Btake his adversary's taw in the most difficult situation. It was like magic. The brain of a philosopher might have been set to work by it in considering the wonderful connexion between the eye and the hand, or an engineer might have taken a hint from it for directing his operations in the art of gunnery. With what pride would our veteran of the bat relate the notches that he made, and the bets that were laid on his skill,-aye, and the odds that were always taken in his favour, both at cricket and at taw! If you are not proud, reader, you may in imagination accompany me to the sign of, at Walworth, or to the -, at Battersea, or any other sign in that neighbourhood that signifies the presence of pipes, ale, and tobacco; where you will see a smooth piece of ground, on which is marked a ring, filled with marbles. But this is not the grand match, it is only the rehearsal; yet are the players no less in earnest; nor are the spectators less intent on the play, or less sapient in remarking on the various hits and misses that take place; while every one is evidently satisfied in his own mind that he can tell how this or that player might have made better shots. But there is a silent observer, who appears to take no particular interest in the sport, but who at the end of the rehearsal approaches our hero, with this question," Are you not, sir, to play a match at?"—"Yes," was the reply." Then I'll not play; I'll pay the forfeit." This was one of the many triumphs poor B obtained, in marbles and at cricket; in draughts, too, equal success awaited his skill; and it was his own powers that gained him his victories. It was not his horse, or his dog, that gave him credit, as by proxy. Is the man at Doncaster, York, or Newmarket, an inch the taller, or a whit the better, that the strength or speed of his mare or gelding wins the race? Even his brethren of the turf think him not a skilful, but a lucky dog. B's good fortune was of a different kind-it was the work of his own creation. It may so happen that the possessor and the thing possessed may have mutual relations, and reflect credit the one on the other. The possessor of an English house and grounds may be a man of taste; the collector of pictures, a man of judgment; that of antiquities, a man of virtu; and so on; but to suppose that any or all of these should obtain credit from the mere possession, would be idle in the extreme; we might just as well attribute to the vase the sweetness of the flowers it contains, or praise the pedestal that sustains the statute, or panegyrize the frame that holds the picture. But it is the game of cricket* that should occupy the principal place in these remarks; and though it *"I doubt if there be any scene in the world more animating or delightful than a cricket-match," says Miss Mitford, in the first volume of "OUR VILLAGE," where she describes-" not a set match at Lord's Ground for money," but―" a real solid old-fashioned match between neighbouring parishes, where each attacks the other for honour and a supper, glory and half-a-crown a man." Indeed, so full of genuine character-so expressive of rustic feelings-and, altogether, so admirably well related, is her history of a country cricket-match, that we are irresistibly led to quote a very considerable portion of it. Miss M. writes, as will be seen, not only with all the ardour of a partisan, but like one who well understands the subject. "Thus ran our list :-William Grey, 1.-Samuel Long, 2.-James Brown, 3.-George and John Simmons, one capital, the other so, so, —an uncertain hitter, but a good fieldsman, 5.-—Joel Brent, excellent, 6.—Ben Appleton-Here was a little pause-Ben's abilities at cricket were not completely ascertained; but then he was so good a fellow, so full of fun and waggery! no doing without Ben. So he figured in the list, 7.-George Harris-a short halt there too! Slowish-slow, but sure. I think the proverb brought him in, 8.-Tom Coper—oh, beyond the world, Tom Coper! the red-headed gardening lad, whose left-handed strokes send her (a cricket-ball, like that other moving thing, a ship, is always of the feminine gender), send her spinning a mile, 9.—Robert Willis, another blacksmith, 10. "We had now ten of our eleven, but the choice of the last occasioned some demur. Three young Martins, rich farmers in the neighbourhood, successively presented themselves, and were all rejected by our independent and impartial general for want of merit-cricketal merit. 'Not good enough,' was his pithy answer. Then our worthy neighbour, the half-pay lieutenant, offered his services-he, too, though with some hesitation and modesty was refused-'Not quite young enough,' was his sentence. John Strong, the exceedingly long son of our dwarfish mason, was the next candidate,- -a nice youthevery body likes John Strong, and a willing, but so tall and so limp, |