Mr. J. M. Richardson's Writings Collated 



seated on the grass below the ropes almost unnecessary, has, 

 like a good many other cherished institutions in the past, 

 disappeared long ago. 



" Hi, bring me a pot of shandygaff! " cheerily exclaimed a 

 noble lord at my elbow one broiling hot afternoon many years 

 ago, adding, as he turned round to his laughing companion, 

 " Dashed if I can resist the pewter pots of these fellows ; they 

 remind me of the dear old Christopher ! " 



What with legislation, the doctors, and the faddists generally, 

 our old friend John Barleycorn seems to be having an extremely 

 bad time of it just now ; Lord's Cricket Ground being by no 

 means the only place where his presence is considered " out of 

 date." For instance, whereas formerly, when out shooting, a 

 horn of nut-brown ale was good enough for our fathers to wash 

 down their luncheon with, whether on a grouse moor in August, 

 under a leafy hedge in September, or in a covert in December, 

 our modern sportsman, especially if at all " neurotic," can't get 

 on at all unless cheered up by the exhilarating " pop " of the 

 champagne corks. 



The first Eton and Harrow match I witnessed, soon after 

 going to the last-named school, was in 1861, and I well 

 remember the row and chaff that went on all the time, and 

 again the following year. Dr. Butler, then headmaster of the 

 school on the hill, had just previously issued a mandate that our 

 trouser-pockets should be sewn up, with an idea of preventing 

 the slouching habit acquired by their wearers keeping hands 

 perpetually in them. The Eton boys got hold of this, and they 

 never let us alone on the subject all through the match, any 

 chaff on our side being immediately the signal for a yell of 

 " Pockets ! " 



As the day went on the fun waxed fast and furious, with the 

 natural result that sundry fistic encounters took place during 



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