be too hampered both in the matter of taking their ease and also about tobacco. Formerly it was the exception to smoke, now the exception is not to. I remember when Smokers _v._ Non-Smokers was played at Lord’s. The former eleven all took the field with cigarettes in their mouths, and freely declared that some of their opponents had not been lifelong total abstainers in the matter of tobacco. It was a rattling good game, all the same. Those big amateur matches at Lord’s had something of the charm of country-house cricket on a large scale, thanks to a slight relaxation of formality and a good deal of cheery hitting. The best of these functions was the I Zingari jubilee match, when the famous wanderers opposed the Gentlemen of England in 1895. In connection with the immortal gipsy club, it is interesting to quote its motto, “Keep your promise—keep your temper—keep your wicket up.” Founded in 1835 under the title of the Beverley Club, it was renamed by Sir Spencer Ponsonby Fane, who with the late Mr. Lorraine Baldwin and my own uncle, Mr. Chandos Leigh, will be for ever associated with its welfare. The rules are unique, and a trifle whimsical; for example: “Entrance be nothing, and the annual subscription do not exceed the entrance.” At the election of a new member, it was enjoined that the candidate should take his stand at the wicket with or without a bat, as the committee may decide. Being a vagrant body, the I Zingari have never boasted a ground of their own, and it is a pity that more serious cricket should have lessened the importance of their chief matches. Now, having announced that I am going to be desultory, I propose to reel off a batch of anecdotes. The bulk will be anonymous, which is a pity, because individuality always gives point to a tale, but I have no wish to hurt any one’s feelings. Some years ago, at the period known as “when we were boys together,” the late Lord Leconfield one summer holidays had a boys’ cricket week at Petworth, having teams of Sussex, Surrey, and Hampshire youngsters to play. He daily entertained all the teams at dinner, which, by the way, was served on silver plates. Suddenly, in one of those silences which sometimes fall on assembled eaters, a big lad shouted, loud enough to be heard even by the late Lord Leconfield himself, “I do hate eating off these beastly tin plates; in a decent house like this they might give us china ones.” This lad never proved good enough for first-class cricket, so please do not father the tale on to any prominent run-getter.