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 720 and if in these days any old gentleman who played in a county match half a century ago, has been drawing the long bow about his score, he is safe to be caught out now, for there is the accurate record of his doings in black and white. Mr. Lillywhite tells us that he was fortunate enough to see in the flesh one of the crack players of the old Hambledon Club, William Beldham, whose first recorded match was a match played between All England and the White Conduit Club, in the year 1787. When Mr. Lillywhite paid Beldham a visit in April 1858, he found the old man, then in his ninety-second year, at work in his garden before eight o’clock in the morning. Beldham died at the beginning of the year 1862, in his ninety-seventh year, having laid aside his bat for forty-one years, at the termination of a career of thirty five years as a public player, his last recorded match being in 1821. In 1852, Beldham, then in his eighty-seventh year, walked seven miles to Godalming to see the All England Eleven play, and the old man’s intellect and memory were so unimpaired, that he could accurately remember any incident connected with cricket from the time when he was ten years old; and this power of memory continued up to the time of his death.

We cannot do better than conclude this article after old Beldham’s long innings. Perhaps at some future period, when Mr. Lillywhite’s four volumes are published, we may attempt to classify the players of the different periods of cricket.

From the rise of the Marylebone Club to the present date, Cricket has no particular history of its own which would interest the general reader who is not a cricketer. If he is a cricketer, Mr. Lillywhite has supplied him with a cricketing banquet, to which he can help himself at his leisure, and of which he will never tire.

Before leaving the subject of cricket for the present, we must not omit a few words about the “Cricketo-machia” (to coin a word) which will make the year 1863 celebrated in the annals of the game. For many years past, cricketers—although not exactly iron-plated—have been padded and guarded by numerous ingenious devices, in a manner which provided for safety of knuckles and shins, but of late years the bowling became dangerous to nose and eyes, owing to the windmill style of overhead bowling, which appeared much more like reckless throwing than fair bowling. All this wild artillery was in direct contravention of Law X. of the Marylebone Club, and a decision has been come to by the Marylebone Club that the unfair system of bowling shall be put down with a strong hand. This was not done without much opposition, as young England is very intrepid, but the fiat is against them, and the rising generation must be content to do as their former generation did, and bowl fair or not at all.

But the Marylebone Club, in a hurry to do too much, for once have overstepped their jurisdiction, and repealed a law of the game (Law XXIV.), in defiance of one of their standing orders. “Bell’s Life” was filled with correspondence on the advisability of making the law of “leg before wicket” more stringent, and more in favour of the bowler, and the Marylebone Club caught up the cry and amended the law as it formerly existed without notice to the members, and enacted that if any portion of the batsman’s person was in a straight line between the wickets, and the ball struck him, he should be given out.

The opposition party, however, demanded a re-hearing of the case on a technical ground, and carried the day, and the law was declared to remain as it was.

We all make mistakes sometimes, and the Marylebone Club are not infallible. They have done great things for our noblest national sport, so we may conclude this article by wishing them and all cricket-clubs an uninterrupted career of success in promoting a sport which is dear to rich and poor. F. G.

Gerona to Barcelona, the line of rail passes through a prosperous and well-cultivated plain, well-wooded, and watered by rapid mountain streams, whose banks are fringed with gigantic reeds, which supply thatch to the cottages and fences for the fields. It then coasts along the shores of the Mediterranean, so close that the tide washes at times over the lines. Precipitous rocks, on the other hand, rise so near to the sea, that there is scarce room for the road, and the single line of houses, which, extending miles along the shore, forms one never-ending street. The numerous stations involve a perpetual trial of patience to the traveller, as the villages are painfully like one another, and offer nothing of interest. At times the cliffs recede, and, embosomed among orange-groves and olive-yards, you see the summer retreat of some wealthy citizen of Barcelona. But beautiful as is the scenery, and grand as must be the views commanded by some of these villas, they have not the fascinating beauty of our English homes. The dryness of the air and soil is prejudicial to grass and verdure, irrigation is immensely expensive, and even then nothing like turf can be made to grow. The bare earth under the olives is parched and tawny, and beautiful as are the orange-trees, they look stiff and formal. Barcelona has an opulent appearance: it manufactures largely, and its port is crowded with shipping. Were it not for the sight of a villager here and there, wrapped in his “manta,” one might fancy one’s self at Marseilles. The Rambla, or long promenade bordered by trees, on either side, was filled with a gay multitude: it was All Saints’ day, a universal holiday; booths were erected in double file under the trees, and a brisk trade was going on in splendid bouquets and white lilies, fit for the hand of some glorified martyr. This wealth of flowers was destined, according to the custom of the district, to adorn the tombs of the departed.

The Fonda del Oriente was the focus of an excited crowd: the large court-yard of the building was covered in like a tent. In the centre stood a large table, laden with provisions of all kinds, fowls, hams, pies, custards, cakes all glistening with sugar devices, and turreted castles, carefully concocted with the seed of the stone