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 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, called for love and respect, and for his flaxen locks and his fair