cept that the boys would be men and the balls of iron."

In "Tom Brown at Oxford," there is the description of another amusement, as characteristic of the maturer years of the student as a foot-ball is of his school-days. It relates an university boat-race, which is perhaps the most characteristic of all gymnastic amusements. We must premise that Oxford and Cambridge are both situated on rivers, but they are rivers so narrow that it would be difficult, if not dangerous, for one eight-oared boat to pass another in a race. Hence a system has been devised, which is called "bumping," whereby the boats, instead of starting abreast, are placed at the beginning of a race one behind the other, at short intervals, in a fixed order, and the victory consists in touching some part of the boat in front with the bow. After this feat is performed, the successful boat, in the next race, endeavours to to give another bump, thereby gaining a further advanced place in the list; and then on again, until it wins the coveted honour of being the "head of the river," as it is called―i. e., first of all on the list. Here, then, is an account of a boat-race between the scholars of two

"TOM BROWN AT OXFORD."

105

.colleges, St. Ambrose's and Oriel, in which Miller is the steerer of the St. Ambrose boat, Tom and Hardy actors in the race, and Drysdale a spectator of it on the shore :-

"After a few moments of breathless hush on the bank, the last gun is fired, and they are off. The old scene of mad excitement ensues, only tenfold more intense, as almost the whole interest of the races is to-night concentrated on the two head boats and their fate. Both make a beautiful start; in the first dash the St. Ambrose pace tells, and they gain their boat's length before first winds fail, and then they settle down for a long steady effort. Both crews are rowing comparatively steady, reserving themselves for the tug of war above. Miller's face is decidedly hopeful; he shows no sign indeed, but you can see that he feels that to-day the boat is full of life, and that he can call on his crew with hopes of an answer. His well-trained eye detects, that while both crews are at full stretch, his own is gaining inch by inch on Oriel. The gain is scarcely perceptible to him even-from the bank it is quite imperceptible; but there it is, he is surer and surer of it, as one after another the willows are left behind....Now there is no mistake about it,

St. Ambrose's boat is creeping up slowly but. surely. The boat's length lessens to 40 feet, to 30 feet, surely and steadily lessens. But the race is not lost yet; 30 feet is a short space enough to look at on the water, but a good bit to pick up foot by foot in the last two hundred yards of a desperate struggle. There stands the winning-post, close ahead, all but won. The distance lessens and lessens still, but the Oriel crew stick steadily and gallantly to their work, and fight every inch of distance to the last. The Orielites on the bank, who are rushing along, sometimes in the water, sometimes out, hoarse, furious, madly alternating between hope and danger, have no reason to be ashamed of a man in the crew. Another minute and it will be over one way or another. Every man in both crews is now doing his best, and no mistake; tell me which boat holds the most men who can do better than their best at a pinch, who will risk a broken blood-vessel, and I will tell you how it will end. 'Hard pounding, gentlemen; let us see who will pound longest,' the Duke of Wellington is reported to have said at the Battle of Waterloo ; and he won. Is there a man of that temper in either crew to-night? If so, now is his time.

;

For both coxswains have called on their men for the last effort: Miller is whirling the tassel of his right hand tiller-rope round his head like a weary little lunatic: from the towing path, from Christ Church meadow, from the rows of punts, from the clustered tops of the barges, comes a roar of encouragement and applause, and the band, unable to resist the impulse, breaks with a crash into the tune of the Jolly Young Waterman. The St. Ambrose stroke is glorious. Tom had an atom of go still left in the very back of his head, and this moment he heard Drysdale's 'view holloa' above all the din; it seemed to give him a lift, and other men besides in the boat, for in another six strokes the gap is lessened, and St. Ambrose has crept up to ten feet, and now to five astern of the Oriel. Weeks afterwards, Hardy confided to Tom, that when he heard that view holloa, he seemed to feel the muscles of his arms and legs turn into steel, and did more work in the last twenty strokes than in any other part in the earlier part of the race. Another fifty yards and Oriel is safe, but the look on their Captain's face is so ominous that their coxswain glances over his shoulder. The bow of St. Ambrose is within two feet of their

rudder. It is a moment for desperate expe-. dients. He pulls his left tiller-rope suddenly, thereby carrying the stern of his own boat out of the line of St. Ambrose's, and calls on his crew once more: they respond gallantly yet, but the rudder is against them for a moment, and the boat drags. St. Ambrose's overlaps. 'A bump,' ' a bump,' shout the Ambrosians on shore. Row on, row on,' screams Miller. He has not yet felt the electric shock, and knows he will miss his bump if the young ones slacken for a moment. A young coxswain would have gone on making shots at the stern of the Oriel boat, and so have lost. A bump now and no mistake; and the bow of St. Ambrose's boat jams the oar of the Oriel stroke, and the two pass the winning-post with the swing that was on them when the bump was made. So bare a shave was it. To describe the scene on the bank is beyond me. It was a hurly-burly of delirious joy."

Here we see much pluck, endeavour, and excitement, expended on a worthless object, a barren honour-so much, indeed, that the risk of bursting a blood-vessel is run in order to win. And we cannot but perceive that the spirit which wins an Oxford boat-race is the same