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 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:

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! 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