THE DEAR OLD FLAG.
I saw numbers of Americans, during the great excitement of that memorable day, pass and repass the sacred symbol of their country just for the sake of lifting their hats to the dear old flag. Bloodisthicker than water—even if it was only a boat race. One young fellow who had been for four years studying his profession at Halle, in Germany, and had not seen the Gridiron during that time, doffed his hat twice and was cheered from the balcony in return; and when he came tome and spoke, his eyelashes were humid, and, when I asked him what was the matter, he answered in a polyglot of Deutsch and English:
"Ach Gott! I've been having a blamed good cry at the sight of the Stars and Stripes."
And thus the day passed, and the sun declined in force and fell in strips of silver and gold and purple on Putney church and steeple, and on all that mad, roaring, shouting, gambling, eating, and drinking multitude, that lined both banks of the river from Putney to Mortlake—a million human beings in all—to witness ten lads struggle for less than half an hour in two frail boats.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
STRUGGLE AND VICTORY.
AS I passed down the towing path toward the stone house where the Harvard crew were resting, I saw the blue blades of four slender oars elevated above the crowd, and passing through the closely wedged ranks. The men who carried them, the Oxford Four, appeared on the river's bank—four fine looking young fellows, with the coxswain, a mere lad, in their rowing suits. They were going to take a paddle preparatory to the race, for half a mile up the Thames toward the Duke of Devonshire's. They looked well, and were loudly cheered as they got into their boat. They paddled up the river.
As I passed the gate of the stone house I saw the Chevalier Wykoff and George Wilkes standing together and spoke to them both. Just at this moment the face of Loring, the stroke of the Harvard crew, appeared looking out toward the river, which was packed with boats full of people. There was something in the man's face that I did not like. I had not seen him for a few days previous. He had a huge boil under his right chin in his neck, with a white crust on the top of it; his eyes seemed wild, his manner anxious and hurried, and altogether he seemed very unsteady. I shook hands with him and asked him how he felt.
ON BOARD THE PRESS BOAT.
He said slowly, "Pretty well," and after we talked a few minutes he went in to prepare for the struggle. I stepped back to the towing path and spoke to Mr. Wilkes, who asked of me"Who is that? Is not that Mr. Loring, the Stroke of Harvard?" I answered in the affirmative. Mr. Wilkes then asked me, "What did he say? Does he feel well?" I answered, "He says he feels pretty well?" Wilkes burst out, "Pretty well! He doesn't look like it. That man's sick." and in an instant he dashed into the crowd to find some one and I lost him for the time being.
I walked down to the "Star and Garter" inn slowly, thinking of the last look I had at Loring, and I felt astonished that he should be ready to pull a race in his condition. The man was evidently in a state of exhaustion; he looked overworked, overstrained, and out of condition for a four mile and three furlong race—he who had, when at his best, only been used to pull a three mile race, turning at a stake of a mile and a half distance.
Warned by the noise and rapid movements of the crowd that something was astir, I made my way by the Star and and Garter, out of whose windows men were handing porter bottles to their friends beneath, and, walking to the river's bank, I hailed a boat with two Thames watermen in it, who pulled me through the line of Police boats to the Press boat Sunflower, which had her steam up and was getting ready.
Getting on the deck I took a look around me. Above and at our back was the old Putney Bridge, thick with human beings of both sexes. Beneath were countless steamboats and small craft, wedged together in a dense mass, covering the river behind the bridge for acres, and at our stern a huge iron chain of Vulcanic links stretched from the Star and Garter to a point off Fulham on the Middlesex shore. The chain in the middle of the river was under water, but near both shores it was visible to all the passengers on the steamboats behind Putney Bridge, but also impassable to them, however they might rage, fume, and curse at their ill-luck and guineas thrown away.
By the side of the Press boat, the Umpire's boat—a craft similar in build and appearance—was anchored, many of the passengers wearing the rival colors; the Americans drinkingbrandy and soda to refresh themselves, and the Englishmen giving odds on Oxford with great good will and humor.
The picture on the river was a most striking one, and worthy of a master's brush, with its vivid color, the striking dresses of the crowds, the flags and bunting from housetops and steam funnels; the green-leaved trees, their branches covered with human fruit, and the hot August sun, just losing its intensity, as a cool breeze came down from the direction of Mortlake to ruffle the surface of the river, its eddies and wavelets sparkling and dancing like diamonds of price.
It was now within a few minutes of five o'clock. There was a sudden hum above on the river, at a place called the Crab Tree, as the Oxford crew got into their boat, and the hum became distinct and swelled into a pronounced noise, and the noise became a great solid, full cheer from a hundred thousand throats, as the bright blue blades of the Oxford Four were dipped in the water, and they came paddling down the stream in their narrow shell to take position by the Umpire's boat near the bridge. They paddled easily, and took position with a quiet look in their fair English faces that impressed every American favorably.
Then there was another hum as before, when the Harvard crew came down from the boat-house of the London Rowing Club, and a tremendous cheer as their boat came up to the Middlesex shore—in among the seedy long grass.
And now let us look for a moment at the two crews as they sit there passively awaiting the order to "go." The Harvard boat is long, narrow, and the frail cedar wood timbers that compose it are polished like a steel mirror. Its nose and bow are sharp as a lancet, and amidships it is but a few inches out of the water. So frail, and yet to carry the good or bad fortune of a mighty nation's hope.
LORING'S CONDITION.
The Harvard crew wore white flannel shirts, the sleeves cut away at the shoulders, with white drawers shortened above the ankles, and white fillets bound around their temples to save their heads from the sun's rays. To a spectator they looked magnificent—all of them bronzed as they sat well forward inthe boat, their skins like a new guinea. Burnham, the coxswain, had his back to the steamer and faced the stroke, Mr. Loring. Burnham looked stout, massive, and in good condition. His broad back, rather too broad for a coxswain, gave an idea of endurance and "staying" more useful in a stroke than a "cox." His face was tanned, and his quick, restless eyes scanned the broad Thames with a short, momentary glance, and then they rested on Simmons, the hope of the American boat.
Burnham wore a Vandyke tuft at his chin, and a stiff, bristling mustache of sandy hue. He looked old enough to be father to the Oxford coxswain. Loring sat with both hands grasping the stroke-oar on the right side of the boat. His face was turned also, and his dark eyes had something nervous and flitting in them that I did not like. His body was as lean as a greyhound's—in fact, he was too lean for a long race. But the muscles and sinews stood out in bold relief, and the cords of flesh between the shoulder-blades were hard, and, Loring being slightly round in the shoulders, it gave him a look of great strength, more fictitious than real.
He wore a mustache and goatee—not quite so artistic in shape as Burnham's—and the hair was cropped close to his ears. His face, however, did not satisfy the Americans, who watched him closely. There was something that was indefinite, something unstrung, in the lines that should have been set and hardened like steel bars. He had a feverish look as he sat forward, with his long, massive arms, grasping the oars.
Simmons, the pride of the crew, sat behind Loring, his perfect physical form astounding the Englishmen by its massive and beautiful outline. The face was gravely handsome, the chin round yet firm, the shoulders grand in their proportions, and the loins like the waist of an oak trunk. His naked arms were marble for their shape and purity of skin, and the neck, proudly resting upon his shoulders, could not have disgraced the Sun God.
Take him altogether, I never saw such a perfect specimenof manhood and physical beauty as he looked that day in the Harvard boat. And yet his eyes, usually intense and piercing, and bluish gray, which always looked a man in the face, were to-day yellowish and overcast. That lion heart, which could hardly think of defeat, was torn in a struggle to maintain composure. He and Loring for four days had been gradually weakening almost to the point of exhaustion, and these two men, upon whom the race principally depended, were perfectly aware that their form was not good, and they were well aware, also, that without their strength and health the race was lost before it began.
Simmonds towered above all his companions, and he held the wrist of his oar calmly as he could, while behind him sat Lyman, a grave, austere looking young gentleman, with a well cut face, mouth, and chin, dark hair, a resolute look, and a well shaped body; of modest, but athletic look and determination.
Lyman seemed in very good shape, though a little anxious—as was no more than natural—about Loring and Simmonds, while the most insouciant, daring looking man in the boat to-day, is that haughty, imperious looking fellow who sits in the bow, Joseph Story Fay, a man of proud will, self confidence, and great endurance. He sits seeming a careless observer of the preparatory and technical part of the programme, but those keen, watchful eyes, that seem to stab like a knife, are bent with no little solicitude on the Oxford boat, which is almost stationary a few yards distant.
The Harvard crew had a manly, bold look, taking them in a mass, and a sombre, matured appearance, their bodies and faces stained deep yellow, like a crew of Indians, and they also sat, if I may use the word, taller in their boat than the Oxford crew did in theirs.
CONDITION OF THE MEN.
The Oxford crew were boyish, fresh-faced fellows, compared with them, their light skins and hair making them look more juvenile in appearance, and beside, they had not such an ascetic look as the Harvards, who had lived more like monks than athletes, without any amusement or even beer—for weekstraining themselves to death, and working body and mind too much. The Harvard crew seemed anxious and careworn, when their faces were studied, and they were certainly not in good training condition for the race.
Loring had worked like a horse, pulling long distances in broiling suns; and the crew when together had a bad fashion of rowing the whole course, while the Oxford men contented themselves with a pull of a couple of miles at a time, being careful not to overdo the business. Then, on Sunday the Oxford men always went down to the sea-shore at Brighton, and drank beer moderately and ate fruit in a jolly sort of a way, and plenty of roast meats, while the Harvard men lived to some extent on farinaceous food and porridge and figs and mutton, a favorite dish of theirs when roasted—and to be brief, they were too anxious to win, and the consequence came in the shape of a fidgetty, nervous, and overtrained condition.
Besides, the stroke of the Harvard crew was too labored and fiery and energetic to last, for the amount of powder belonging to them. The arms were with them the great impelling power, and the recover was too high up in the chest, while the Oxford men recovered a little above the pit of the stomach, which is less wearisome and distressing. In catching the oar forward they expended too much force, and spent a great deal of strength in dropping it, while their strength would have been better used in holding the water just before the recovery.
The coxswain, too, was naturally uncertain of his Stroke and Simmonds, both men being in poor condition; and Loring told him before the race, in case that he flagged to sprinkle his face and that of Simmonds, with water. This alone was enough to make Burnham rather shaky, and not a little doubtful of his crew. A few lengths lost by wild steering or nervousness, and it would be of course impossible to win in the case of two crews so very closely matched otherwise. I say all this advisedly, and I am sure the conclusion will bear out my premises. In addition, they had tried half a dozen boats while in training, and displaced two of their crew. Whether it waswise to make this change or not, I have no means of knowing, and cannot say.
The Oxford crew having paddled their boat a little nearer the Press steamer, I now had a good look at them. They all had a fresh, fair, English look, and were not, as far as I could see, at all fagged before going into the race. Darbishire, the Stroke, was the first man who caught my eye. He did not look at all burly in frame, and his figure was lower in the thwarts of the boat by a head, than that of the gigantic-framed Cornwall Celt, Mr. Tinne.
Darbishire had a merry blue eye and a turn-up nose, indicating good humor. His body was well set, his shoulders compact, and his hair, though short, had a proclivity to curl and kink. He had a broad forehead, a mouth a little turned down at the corners and arching, and his chin was moderately firm.
Yarborough was far more determined in his look, and sported a pair of thin, mutton-chop whiskers. He was the darkest-skinned and darkest-eyed man in the Oxford boat, besides being a fine oarsman and a victor of many college matches. His nose was of the snub order, and the chin dimpled, the forehead being broad and white, and the hair, like Darbishire's, inclined to curl. He was what would be a "big small" man, and was as compact and tough as a hickory nut.
Tinne was, however, the giant of the crew. I never saw a more glorious looking fellow than this clear-skinned, handsome Cornwall lad, with his splendid clearly cut profile, frank, merry face, laughing eyes, and thoroughbred look.
It was worth a day's walk to see Tinne pull. He was a man a good deal after the style of our own Simmonds, but not so gravely reserved. He was not as tall as Simmonds, but a great deal heavier, and looked as if he could pull a man-of-war's gig in a race, with those grand shoulders and hips broad as a barrel of beer. Yet, with all his great physique, his gait was as light as a girl's, and the feather of his oar when taken from the water was artistic in itself.
HALL, THE COXSWAIN.
This huge fellow, weighing 192 pounds on the day of the race, was formidable enough to intimidate the boldest bettingAmerican of us all. Tinne, like his friend Willan, the bow oar, had been president of the Oxford University Boat Club, and had never known defeat. Willan, the Bow, looked as if the matter was mere play, while he amused himself with the oar and watched Walter Brown, who held the nose of the Harvard boat from a launch, with a keen alert look. His white Guernsey shirt was open at the neck, and it showed a wonderfully muscular but white throat. His shoulders were broad across, and his fingers grasped the oar as if they were riveted with steel nails to the frail shaft.
crew
THE OXFORD CREW.
The most innocent looking boy I ever saw in a boat was Hall, a slight, frail, girlish looking lad, and coxswain of the Oxford crew. Weighing one hundred pounds on the day of the race, and being about seventeen years of age, he was the last person that a man would choose for a coxswain, who knew nothing of the mysteries and science of the art of rowing as practiced in England. His skin was light and almost transparent, the blue veins in his face being very prominent. His hair was very light, and his eyes blue as the sky. A handsomer lad could not be found, but he seemed delicate enough to be blown away with a breath. The face was weak, and the mouth of a curious shape, the corners being drawn down, and giving him a soft, credulous look.
Looking at him there in his dark-blue jacket of thin flannel—all the rest of the crew were in white shirts cut away at the elbows, and white drawers shortened at the ankles—he looked so innocent and lady-like, that it needed but a crinoline and silk skirt to transform him into a pretty English girl of the period.
And yet that delicate boy had a great trust, and "Little Corpus," as he was called from his college at Oxford, well deserved it all, for his knowledge of the river was unrivaled, and his steering was simply perfection. Nothing could be finer. A New York betting-man, who lost heavily, declared that he was a "young weasel" for sagacity and cool nerve.
By the time I had taken a good look at both crews, the arrangements had all been made, and the two boats had beenbrought by their coxswains up to a line stretched across the river, and the crews now lay in their boats, with bodies bent forward, their faces set, their oars grasped with energy, the coxswains with the ropes in both hands, and the stroke of each boat having his oar blade poised a few feet above the water.
Walter Brown held the nose of the Harvard boat, and John Phelps, a rugged looking Thames waterman, had his grip fastened on the Oxford boat, waiting for the word to go. Loring's eyes are blazing with unwonted fire; Darbishire seems confident and easy, with his ears dilated like a pointer, and a death-like silence reigns all over that swarming river—just now the noise was deafening; the Americans have ceased to drink any more brandy and soda; Tom Hughes looks up the river to see if all is clear; Mr. Lord, of the Thames Conservancy, reports all clear—and the bulky figure of Blakey, the starter of the race, is seen to ascend the paddle-box of the Lotus steamer, and his voice rings over the water, and is heard with a thrill, for the decisive moment has come at last.
"I shall ask," says Blakey, "are youReady—are youReady, and if you do not stop me I shall give the word Go, after which God speed you both."
"Are you ready?"
"No!" shouts Darbishire.
"Are you ready?"
"No!" again, distinct and clear, from Darbishire.
"Are youReady?" No answer this time from either crew.
"GO!"
A hundred thousand throats, as if made of cast-iron, bellow forth: a hundred thousand eyes are dazzled for a moment as the diamond drops fall from the upraised blue blades of Oxford and the white blades of Harvard. Walter Brown executes a war dance in an instant after he has sent the Harvard shell a full length on its way. The 'Rah, 'Rah, 'Rah, of Harvard pierces the air; the masses on the banks of the river begin to show incipient symptoms of madness. Both boats are off, Harvard pulling like demons, and Oxford has just got into her careless, easy swing, pumping away like machines. Thetwo steamers start on a helter-skelter race, and the greatest boat race the world ever saw has just begun for better or for worse.
HARVARD'S LIGHTNING STROKE.
No man that day who witnessed the start of the two boats—the terrific spring of the Harvard crew, and the cool, rythmical measure of the Oxford stroke—can ever forget that moment of moments, unless, indeed, his blood be thinner than water and his pulse of ice. The Harvard crew caught the water first, and were well on their way before the crowds were recovered from the shock. Loring swept away like a tiger after his prey, and Burnham—who had won the toss for choice of position, steered in on the Middlesex shore, the Oxford crew having won a blank, and having to keep in, consequently, on the Surrey side—showing very good judgment at first, and keeping his boat well under way. It was but a minute, and Harvard was a full length clear in the water of the Oxford boat, Loring pulling forty-two strokes a minute, and Simmond's elbows going backward and forward like a steam engine.
The Oxford crew, after a pause, recovered from their slight surprise, and fell into stroke as if a piece of mechanism were propelling their narrow shell. Darbishire is now rowing beautifully, and has settled down to hard work, while Tinne's great shoulders, bob up and down with superhuman energy, his glorious chest expanded to its full power, and he pulls with the magnificence of incarnate force, while "Little Corpus," the coxswain, is as quiet as a mouse, watching every stroke of the Harvard crew, as he sets in the stern sheets of the Oxford shell.
Oxford has started with thirty-eight strokes, and now, when Mr. Darbishire sees Loring putting on the steam at forty-four, he quickens his stroke to thirty-nine, and Hall gets the boat headed a little toward the Middlesex shore.
The Star and Garter is fast disappearing from the stern of the Press boat, and the Umpire's boat follows closely, neck and neck almost. The crowds at a place called the "Creek," where a little stream runs tributary to the Thames, are shouting "Oxford" all their might and main. Fay, in the bow of the Harvard boat, seems to hear the taunt, and begins to showevidence of his strength, by pulling the bow-side around slightly, which compels Burnham to put his rudder down and keep off from the Oxford boat.
At Simmond's boat-house the jam is tremendous, and the crowd cheers Harvard as she sweeps by a length ahead; and Oxford going a few feet wild at this point, the Harvard men on the two steamers shout themselves hoarse, and one man with a Magenta-ribbon takes off a new hat, carefully inspects it for a moment, and then in a delirium of frenzy kicks the crown of it in, and presents it skyward as a peace offering.
The people on the Surrey towing-path seem all mad, Oxford is not showing speed enough for them, and the stands and shows and booths are deserted as if they had never been in existence, the crowds pressing forward to the bank of the river wildly. Passing the "Willows," a pleasant little grove of trees, with a quaint stone house nestled in their bosom, a loud cheer is given as the Oxonians spurt a little, while at the same time the water falls, or rather dashes from Loring's oar with increased vehemence, for Harvard is now pulling at the tremendous pace of 45 strokes a minute, a thing unheard of before in an English boat race.
At "Craven Cottage" Oxford gains slightly, but the fact is hardly noticed by the Harvard men, who can see but one thing, and that is the Harvard boat, now ahead by a length and a half. I never imagined that Loring could do the work he is now doing, which is superhuman, and therefore cannot last. At the "Soap Works," a crazy old place, Darbishire seems to be creeping up, and his stroke is most assuredly telling on the Harvard energy and fire. Oxford is now pulling 40, and the cheers are deafening from the shore, while cries and exclamations and yells of encouragement come from the countless wherries, stationary barges, and craft of all kinds that line the Surrey side.
race
THE UNIVERSITY RACE.
"Well pulled, Willan. Nobly done for Exeter," shouts an excited Oxford University man from a small boat. "You are sure to win."
"Oh,goit Harvard;goit Harvard. 'Rah—'Rah—'Rah—'Rah. Hit her up, Loring."
"Keep your steam on, Burnham. Don't get frightened."
"What's the matter with Harvard, now," says a Harvard man to a dignified English gentleman on the Press boat.
"Wonderful stroke, sir; 'fraid it can't last. Great power, sir, in the Oxford crew," says the old gentleman rather curtly.
"Well done, Simmonds, you are the man for my money," cries a Western man who has a bottle of soda water in his hand, and has been betting heavily all the way down the river on the boat.
BURNHAM'S BAD STEERING.
Opposite the "Doves," Harvard goes away splendidly from Oxford; but now the Harvard men on the steamboats begin to notice something queer in the steering of Burnham. Briefly, he is steering wide of his race, and very badly, and his nerve seems to be going, for the boat looks quite unsteady and veers in the water more than she ought to. Now we are rounding a bend in the river, and the great, single span of Hammersmith Bridge looms up before us. Every coigne of vantage on this immense pile, from one side of the river to the other, is covered with vehicles, broughams, carriages, 'busses, and at least thirty thousand people are clustered and hanging on to the structure in a most astonishing manner. It was a mad sight, that bridge, with the great swaying masses, pushing, shouting, and fighting to get a look at the boats.
Cries of "Hoxford," "Hoxford," come down from above our heads as we near the bridge, and the excitement is perfectly terrific. We have already passed a quarter of a million of people, to estimate them in the rough, and still they line the banks above us in impenetrable masses. The waving of handkerchiefs and shouting is enough to make a man lose his senses, if the race did not claim so much attention from the spectators.
Harvard prepares to shoot under the bridge, being still a length and a half ahead, but Loring is not doing his work so stoutly now, although the Harvard boat glides through thewater at 46 strokes a minute. The pace is too hard and it will not and cannot last five minutes longer.
Oxford steers out from the Surrey bank to shoot the bridge, and "Little Corpus" makes a circuit to avoid an eddy where the tide is bad, while Burnham is mad enough to go away from the race by giving room to Darbishire's boat, whose coxswain never loses an inch by weak or ill-judged steering, Burnham going out of his way too much to accommodate Oxford, instead of keeping on and taking Oxford's water in a direct line. It was at this place that Harvard lost the race, wholly by Burnham's bad steering and Loring's nervousness.
"Oh, my God! what are you doing Burnham, why do you steer so?" shouts an excited Yale man in the Press boat thinking vainly that Burnham will hear him; but Harvard is too far on our bow to hear the warning voice, and here she loses a full half length. The excitement is now beyond description. From all the vast stagings that are erected on the Surrey side, decorated with English bunting and covered with thousands of people, comes a glad swell of triumph, borne on the breeze, and striking despair to every American heart.
Now, at this moment, after shooting Hammersmith bridge, Loring's oar seems to hang loosely from the gunwale of the boat, and his head is bent forward as if he were about to faint. In an instant the coxswain, Burnham, dashes water into his face and chest, and repeats the ablution five or six times, throwing the water also on Simmonds, who is weakened from the pace he has been pulling.
The Harvard stroke now goes down to 42, to 41, and to 40; for Loring is knocked up, and the pulling is being done by Fay, on the bow side, in despair. Elliott, the boat-builder, standing on the paddle-box of the Lotus, is black in the face from shouting, "Harvard! Harvard!" "Pull up Harvard!"
OXFORD'S VENGEANCE STROKE.
There goes that same steady, wonderful, glorious stroke of Oxford, like the knell of doom, not to be stopped until victory perches on her gallant crew. At Chiswick Island Loring spurted and made a despairing effort; but the man is sick and gone for the race, and it is no use hallooing now, for Oxfordforges past the Harvard boat with a will and power that calls forth a shout from the assembled multitude, which rings in the ears of Loring's crew like a sentence of death.
Still the gallant fellows struggle on, inspired by an agony which none may describe in such a race, and they never falter for an instant, but pull as if they were determined to win. During the first mile and a half of the race, Burnham received the back wash of the Oxford boat, by keeping all the time in a line behind Darbishire's crew with a seeming blunder that actually called tears of rage to the eyes of Americans on the steamboats. Getting along by Chiswick Church, which was crowded with people, the Oxford crew pulling 40, their boat was a length ahead of the Harvard bow oar, and Hall, the coxswain, took care that no ground should be lost by his steering. Then Darbishire spoke the word to his crew, and throwing all the powder they could into their backs, they gave Harvard only the alternative of pulling to Barnes's Bridge for an honorable defeat.
Never for a moment did Oxford flag, but kept the stroke as if grim death was at their heels, yet all the time throughout the race they seemed easy in their style, and regular as the pendulum of an eight-day clock.
The want of time and catch in the Harvard stroke was very noticeable at Barnes's Bridge, and here the same immense crowds were gathered as at the bridge at Hammersmith, and now the Oxford boat being positively a length and a half ahead, and no mistake, the cries and shouts were most appalling. Past the green fields in the Duke of Devonshire's meadows a large crowd was gathered, who hailed the appearance of the Oxford crew with great and significant pleasure.
The race was now lost, virtually. Harvard was out of time—knocked up—and the men in her boat were laboring like oxen in chains. The morale of the Harvard crew was gone a mile below Barnes's Bridge, when Loring's oar hung loose for the first time, and nothing human could now give old Massachusetts a victory. It was a gallant struggle, too, and nobly waged. Passing the "White Cottage" and the "White Hart" in the race for the Ship Tavern at Mortlake, the Harvard crew,in the last quarter of a mile, put on a desperate spurt and rowing for a minute and a half at 44 strokes, they gained ground on Oxford, whose crew seemed as fresh as when they began.
BEATEN BY EIGHT SECONDS.
Now is the last desperate struggle. Pull, Harvard; you cannot hope to win. Pull, Harvard, and pluck the sting from defeat! Both crews go at it for a minute, and Loring's last spark of fire is given to drive his boat through the water. There is a shout from the Ship Tavern, where the American flag is displayed. Oxford comes by with that terrible vengeance stroke, the terror of many a gallant Cantab oarsman. There is a shout which splits the clouds almost, a report of a gun, and Oxford has struck the tow line, a boat and a half's length ahead, (not three lengths ahead as was reported,) the race is lost and won, by about 65 feet, and the most gallant display ever seen on the Thames is over, and the dark blue swarms go home triumphant at heart. Bridges, river bank, and church steeple are deserted, as the Oxford crew paddle their boat along side of the Harvard crew, and, raising their hands in air, give the defeated oarsmen a hearty English cheer and shake hands with them, and the Harvard boys cheer back, and Charles Reade, who stands on the deck of the steamer Lotus, lifts his straw hat in respect to Loring, who smiles back sadly at him, and all is over. The children's children of those two crews will yet tell of that day's struggle, which for one hour served to call back the Homeric days of Greece.
The distance pulled by the Harvard and Oxford crews was four miles and three furlongs, without any turning at a stake boat. The day was a very warm one, the thermometer being at 87° Fahrenheit—in the shade.
The names and weight of the crews were as follows:
The time occupied by both crews in pulling the race was as follows:
Both crews did their best, but the Oxford style of rowing, and their form, was superior to that of Harvard. Rowing with a coxswain will one day supersede the Harvard bow-steering. The Harvard crew received perfect fair-play and courtesy, and all the stories to the contrary which have been circulated are untrue.
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CHAPTER XXV.
THE CURIOSITIES OF LONDON.
MOST venerable relic—none more so in London—is the Domesday Book, which I was allowed to inspect one day while sauntering through the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey. This hoary volume is called the "Domesday Book," or, "Register of the Lands of England," and was made in the year 1086, almost in the morning of English history.
There are two volumes of the "Domesday Book," one being a folio and the other a quarto. A fee of a shilling is charged strangers, to inspect the musty old tomes, with their illuminated characters, which detail the various "messuages," "folkmotes," "carucates," and "hydes," of land, which were divided among Norman William's mail clad barons, by right of conquest, nearly a thousand years ago.
These volumes are the oldest in England, although I have been informed that there are, in the Bodleian Library, at Oxford, two books, in Greek characters, which were saved from the destruction of the Alexandrian Library in the Ninth Century.
THE DREADNOUGHT.
One of the Domesday volumes is a very large folio, the other is a quarto. The quarto is written on 382 double pages of vellum, in one and the same hand, in small but plain characters, each page having double columns. Some of the capital letters and principal pages are touched with black ink, and others are crossed with lines of red ink. The second volume,in folio, is written in 450 pages of vellum, but in single columns, occupying each page, and in a large, fair character. At the end of the second volume is the following memorial, in capital letters, of the time of its completion:
"Anno Millesimo Octogesimo Sexto ab Incarnatione Domini, vigesimo vero regni Willielmi, facta est ista Descriptio, non solum per hos tres Comitatus, sed etiam per alios."
These books, until the year 1696, or for over six hundred years, were carried innumerable times from place to place, through England, under strong guards, within the jurisdiction of the various Lord Chancellors, and Courts, to settle disputes and verify local records and documents, in regard to the transmission of real estate, for every acre of land owned to-day in England is held by the original tenure, given in Domesday Book.
Since 1696 the book has been kept with the King's Seal, at Westminster, in the Exchequer, under three locks and keys in the charge of the Auditor, the Chamberlain, and Deputy Chamberlains of the Exchequer. It is kept in a vaulted porch never warmed by fire. For eight hundred years it has never felt or seen a fire, and yet the pages are bright, sound, and perfect as ever. In making searches, or transcripts from the volume, the text must not be touched, and this has always been the rule from forgotten days. All the cities, towns, and villages of England are recorded in this book, with their value, location, and boundaries, their castles, fortresses, marches, and the religious houses of the Kingdom, as they stood twenty years after Duke William, of Normandy, reined in his war horse from the slaughter of Hastings' dread field.
The Hospital Ship "Dreadnought," (soon to be broken up and sold,) which lies moored off Greenwich, in the dirty Thames, is another of the curious sights of London. An hospital for the sick and diseased seamen of all nations arriving in the port of London, was established on board of the "Grampus," a 50 gun frigate, in 1821, but the "Grampus" did not prove large enough for the purpose, and the next vessel chosen was the 104 gun three-decker "Dreadnought," which was fitted up in 1831, as an Hospital Ship. This old hulk has glorious memories forall Englishmen, who, as they look at her rotting timbers, can imagine that they see her coming out of the smoke of Trafalgar fight, after capturing the Spanish three-decker, "San Juan," which had, two hours before, beaten off the English frigates, "Bellerophon" and "Defiance."
ship
HOSPITAL SHIP, DREADNOUGHT.
The establishment on board of the "Dreadnought" consists of a Superintendent, two Surgeons, an Apothecary, Visiting Physicians, and a Chaplain. The ship is moored contiguous to the bulk of the shipping in the docks, and in the river, and is the only place in London for the reception of sick seamen arriving from abroad, or to whom accidents may happen between the mouth of the river and London Bridge. Sick seamen of every nation, on presenting themselves alongside, are immediately and kindly received without any recommendatory letters, and ship-wrecked sailors, and vagrant seamen, are admitted, if deserving. In 1869, 2,463 patients were received on board, and 1,836 seamen were attended to as out patients.
A GAUDY SHOW.
The Emperor of Russia subscribes annually £150, the Queen of Spain £100, the King of Italy £100, the Emperor of France£200, the Sultan of Turkey £100, the King of Denmark £50, and the King of Prussia £100. I heard nothing of a contribution from the American Government, but it is probable that the American Consul may, in some way, provide for the destitute seamen of his country.
The patients are ranged upon the lower decks, the portholes affording a sort of ventilation, such as it is—the breeze coming in from the putrid Thames' river, and in the cabin are all the implements of surgery, so that a leg or arm can be whipped off at a moment's notice, or an abscess, or ulcer, may be punctured equally quick.
Visitors can inspect the "Dreadnought" on any day of the week, excepting Sunday—between the hours of eleven and three.
The number of seamen cared for in this floating hospital, for the past thirty years, with their different places of nativity, is as follows:
Englishmen, 84,600; Scotchmen, 18,960; Irishmen, 17,325; Frenchmen, 3,911; Germans, 2,800; Russians, 2,230; Prussians, 1,840; Hollanders, 480; Danes, 1,600; Swedes, 2,117; Norwegians, 1,604; Italians, 1,208; Portuguese, 706; Spaniards, 801; East Indians, 2,014; West Indians, 3,212; British Americans, 1,582; United States, 3,316; South Americans, 712; Africans, 1,200; Turks, 174; Greeks, 295; New Zealanders, 98; Australians, 307; South Sea Islanders, 80; Chinese, 347; born at sea, 206.
Generally there are about two hundred patients in the floating Hospital at a time, and it is kept pretty full, from the fact that a poor sailor will perish afloat sooner than enter a land hospital, and seamen often travel from the most distant parts of England, Ireland, and Scotland, to be received in the Dreadnought.
One day, while standing on Cheapside looking at the busy thoroughfare, which much resembles Broadway, New York, in its main features, I saw a queerly-shaped, but magnificent vehicle dash by, embellished in gold and silver, and hung with crimson velvet.
I asked a bystander what it was, and he answered with proper British pride:
"Why, don't you know? That's the Queen's State Kerridge a-goin to the Tower to be repaired."
I afterward saw this vehicle in all its glory and detail, and for the benefit of Americans who may desire to get up a gorgeous equipage, I will do my best to describe it.
The carriage is composed of four Sea Tritons, who support the body by cables; the two placed on the front, as it were, bear the driver, (a most magnificent flunkey in powder and velvet,) and are sounding shells, and those on the back part carry the bundles of Lictors rods which are seen on Roman monuments and medals. The foot board on which the driver rests his noble feet, is a large scallop shell, supported by marine plants of different kinds. The pole resembles a bundle of lances, and the wheels are made in imitation of the war chariots which once rolled around classic arenas in the Games. The body of the coach is composed of eight palm trees, which, branching out at the top, sustain the roof, and at each angle are trophies of English battles by land and sea.
On the top of the roof are three little figures of fairies representing England, Ireland, and Scotland, supporting a golden crown, and holding the sceptre, the sword of state, and insignia of knighthood, and from their bodies fall festoons of laurel to the four corners of the roof.
On the right and left doors, and on the back and front pannels, are painted allegorical designs in splendid style, representing Britannia on a Throne, Religion, Wisdom, Justice, Valor, Fortitude, Commerce, Plenty, Victory, and all the other virtues and acquisitions which all Englishmen flatter themselves can only be found in "Britain ye knaw."
THE QUEEN'S STATE COACH.
Inside the State Coach it is simply magnificent. The body is lined with scarlet embossed velvet, superbly laced and embroidered with the Star, enameled by the Collar of the Order of the Garter, and surmounted by the crown with the George and Dragon pendant. St. George, St. Michael, and even St. Patrick, get a show here, although the latter has very little show from the Queen in his own country.
The hammer cloth is of scarlet velvet, with gold badges, ropes, and tassels. The length of the carriage and body is 24 feet, width 8 feet 3 inches, height 12 feet, length of pole 12 feet, weight four tons. So that the Queen, when she desires a state airing, is carted around for the amusement of her subjects, in a four-ton vehicle. The painting of the panels cost £800, or about $4,000 greenbacks. The eight horses which are employed to draw this magnificent carriage on state occasions, are valued at £2,000, and the expense for grooms, drivers, coachmen, and boys, of this equipage, which is not used more than once in five years, (and when not used being chiefly of service in showing off the manly proportions of John Brown,) is for every year over $25,000, or as much as the salary of the President of the United States. The Queen's coach is one hundred and eight years old, and is kept in the Royal Mews or Stables at Pimlico.
The bill which a loyal people had to pay when it was sent in for this coach, was as follows:
There was an awful row about the size of the bill, which was at first £8,000, but after a great argument it was cut down to the amount paid, £7,528 4 3½. The maker refused to take off the three-half pence, and declared that he had been "skinned androbbed," but I imagine it was the poor miserable wretches who died of starvation and cold and exposure in the London streets that had the best right to complain.
The Lord Mayor's State Coach, which was built in 1757, is almost as magnificent as the Queen's, and is designed in fully as good or bad taste, I do not know which to call it.
To show how the people of England tolerate the most outrageous humbugs on the face of the earth, I will give some of the items in regard to the cost of the Lord Mayor's coach. When the coach was built, one hundred and thirteen years ago, each alderman in the city subscribed £60 towards its construction; then each alderman who was afterward sworn into office, was forced to contribute £60 on taking the oath. And each Lord Mayor also gave £100 on entering his office, to keep the coach in order. In 1768 the entire expense of keeping the coach fell on the Lord Mayor, who had to pay £300 during that year, and twenty years after its construction, the coach cost in 1787, £355 to keep it in order for that twelve months. During seven years of this present century, the cost for repairs was per annum—£115, and in 1812 it was newly lined and gilt for the benefit of the gaping London crowds, at an expense of £600, and a new seat cloth was furnished for £90; and again in 1821, this costly vehicle devoured the bread which ought to have been eaten by the starving poor, to the tune of £206 for another relining. In 1812 a carriage-making firm agreed to keep the coach in order for ten years at an expense to the city of £48 a year, which offer was accepted. The real amount of money swallowed up in this old lumbering vehicle is incalculable. Six horses are required to draw it, valued at £200 a piece, and the coach weighs 7,600 pounds. A Lord Mayor, when well fed and taken care of, weighs, I believe, about 312 pounds. The harnesses for each of the six horses weighs 106 pounds, or 636 pounds in all.
The State Coach belonging to the Speaker of the House of Commons, was built for Oliver Cromwell, and is drawn by two horses.