‘Suppose Reggie and Eric turned out like that young fellow!’ he told
himself. ‘What good would my life do me? Next to marrying one of the
daughters of Heth (the real, original millstone round a man’s neck),
what hope, satisfaction, or comfort should I have in life? Is all my
work, thought, self-denial, and drudgery to go for nothing? Shall I
see as my male heirs and successors a couple of well-dressed,
good-looking “moneyed loungers,” loafing through life with no more
interest in the great drama of existence than the supernumerary at a
fashion play? Less useful, indeed, than the disregarded “super,” for
he works for his humble wage; and these _nati consumere fruges_ don’t
even do that.’
These reflections gave so gloomy a tinge to his view of life that he
felt inclined to pronounce the whole scheme of human life a joke—a bad
one at that. ‘Why, a man might work his powers of mind and body to the
extremity of endurance, to reach a well-defined goal, where happiness
sat enthroned, and then—when he got there—his powers of enjoyment
might desert him, or malign occurrences dash the cup from his lips,
and the apples of the garden of the Hesperides turn to ashes in his
mouth! Why then should mortal man seek to raise himself above the
beasts that perish? “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.”’
_Vanitas vanitatum_ was the verdict with which he concluded this
series of enlivening reflections, when a voice which always had power
to charm away the demons of despondency fell on his ears.
‘Well, my dear Arnold, what are you looking so serious about? Have you
remembered that we are to meet the Liddesdales at luncheon and go with
them to Aintree? We have settled to see the great race run, and
perhaps the boys will be able to get away and meet us on the course.
The girls are so excited about it that their appetites will suffer.
There’s an Australian horse in it, or a New Zealander, or something—at
any rate an Antipodean, more properly still an Australasian. So we
must all back him for the sake of our national honour. What a splendid
thing it will be if he wins!’
‘Afraid he hasn’t much chance, my dear! The jumps are not high
enough—or stiff enough—for a horse used to three-railed fences. Didn’t
some one describe the Grand National as a flat race with a good many
low fences in it? Four miles and a half, a trifle over, they say. It
wants a fast horse, a thoroughbred and a good stayer. I’ve always held
that we—I speak of the South generally—should win it and the Derby
some day. And so we shall, but there’s a difficulty about the age
that complicates the latter race. However, that can be got over, I
suppose, in time; but I don’t feel in racing trim, somehow.’
‘Oh, nonsense, my dear! you mustn’t get into low spirits now we’ve got
everything we ever wished for, and more besides. It looks like the
pilot that weathered the storm breaking up after the ship is safe in
harbour. Come along and see the girls’ new dresses. They’re in such
good taste, and yet “quite excellent” as to fashion and fit.’
The London season! How often had the words fallen on the ears of the
Australian family! What a world of meaning it conveyed to the juvenile
section! Vast, mysterious, splendid—the acme of enjoyment—the _ne plus
ultra_ of fashion. The pinnacle of perfection in all things desirable,
with boundless riches as a substratum, solid, unquestioned, supreme
among the nations, what power was like England? And here they were,
actually living and breathing in her metropolis—the world’s
metropolis, as they had often heard it called. After London there was
nothing more to see—nothing more to learn. There were orders of
nobility on the continent of Europe—Counts and Princes, Barons and
Grafs, in profusion—but what were they to the nobility of England,
where only the eldest son was heir to the ancestral title? Not
cheapened, as abroad, by the law which gave the rank to every child of
the house and to every child of _their_ children—thus multiplying
titles, which having little or no means upon which to support the
dignity, brought contempt upon the order and the race. Day by day as
they rode or strolled in the parks they saw magnificent equipages,
unsurpassed for beauty and uniformity—such as no other capital could
supply—such horses, such carriages!—such equipages generally—as struck
them with surprise and admiration. And the number and quality of them!
As the sands of the sea—innumerable. They never seemed to come to an
end. The private carriages were overpowering enough in all conscience,
but by the Four-in-Hand Club—the Coaching Club—on the days of the
annual processions, were they wonder-stricken, speechless! Such teams,
with such action—in such condition! such coachmen—such footmen—beyond
all conception of matching, all imagination of fashion and
completeness!
Of course they had not been long in town before they were taken to the
theatres and opera houses, where certain performances were in full
vogue and acceptation. Here they were entranced by the perfection of
the impersonations, the splendour of the staging, the pathos and the
majesty of the finest vocal talent of the world, supported by the
grandest instrumental harmony. Of this last consummation an Australian
compatriot, born and reared to womanhood in a southern metropolis, was
a _prima donna assoluta_ during that memorable season.
Heroes too, naval and military, passed in review, in park or street,
before these young people. They were evidently desirous to store their
minds with the exact presentment of the demigods of the race, ‘in
their habit’ as they lived, for retrospective meditation. Kitchener
was in the Soudan again, but they had sight and heard speech of Lord
Roberts—Roberts of Kandahar!
‘Then we put the lances down,
Then the bugles blew, as we rode to Kandahar,
Marching two and two,’
quoted Vanda. He was mounted, looking a horseman and a soldier, every
inch of him, from plume to spur—carried by a lovely charger, but _not_
on the historical Arab. Much they grieved that Volonel the beauteous,
the high-born, the beloved, had passed away to the land of the ‘Great
Dead.’
‘Do you believe,’ queried Vanda, ‘that the dear horses we have all
known, and loved and mourned, are denied a future life, when so many
of our rubbishy fellow-creatures, idle, criminal and despicable in
every sense, are to be pardoned and promoted? I hardly can. It seems
inconsistent with the scheme of eternal justice.’
‘It is a large question,’ replied Reggie, ‘and besides, my dear Vanda,
you are not old enough to argue on debatable points of doctrine. It is
hardly edifying at your age.’
Of course there had been a great meeting with ‘the boys,’ by which
endearing term the Cambridge students were known in the family. They
did not lose much time, it may be believed, before presenting
themselves at the Hotel Cecil, in which palace a telegram from Paris
notified that the family had taken apartments. They were received
with acclamation, and their growth in ‘wisdom and stature’ was
favourably remarked upon by Hermione and Vanda. Certainly they were
good specimens of the Anglo-Saxon youth of the day, whether reared in
Great or Greater Britain. Tall, well proportioned, athletic, well
dressed, and showing ‘good form,’ which means so many indefinable
qualities and habitudes, it may be imagined with what pride and joy
their parents gazed on them, and how, from very joy and thankfulness,
their mother’s eyes overflowed as her loving arms embraced her
first-born and his brother. Their father’s short but fervent greeting
was not effusive, after the manner of Englishmen, but none the less
heartfelt and secretly joyful. As such, fully understood by the sons
of the house.
Then followed, of course, unlimited talk, with explanations,
reminiscences, expectations, descriptions, sketches of functions
impending or otherwise, with interjections by the girls—occasionally
repressed but indulgently allowed, even when not strictly in order, on
account of the exuberant happiness, even transports of the present
meeting. None could deny that. They were a pair of youngsters of whom
any family might have been proud. Their looks were in their favour
certainly. Reginald, the elder, with dark brown hair and eyes, regular
features, and a figure which united grace and symmetry in equal
proportions, was generally held to be handsome—and supposed to be
clever. An ardent and successful student, he had distinguished himself
at his college; in the Union he was looked upon as a promising, even
brilliant debater. Already he was attracted by the prospect of a
legislative career, and while connecting himself for the present with
the Liberals, was conscious of a leaning to Conservative principles,
and a belief that with age, experience, and ripened judgment he might
be found in the ranks of that great party which, while recognising
and, in proper time and place, advocating reasonable progress,
regarded as above all things the honour, the safety, the durability
of the Empire.
The brothers, as happens usually in families, differed in a marked
degree from each other, not less in physical than in mental
attributes, while both were well up to the standard of strength and
activity demanded of well-born, well-educated Englishmen in their
college days.
Eric, the younger, less studious than his senior, had taken a leading
part in the open-air contests of strength and skill which absorb so
large a portion of the leisure of British University men. At cricket,
football, ‘the gloves,’ he was—if not _facile princeps_—always among
the half-dozen from whom were picked the champions of their respective
colleges, in the annual or occasional contests. Each had, of course,
staunch backers and enthusiastic supporters, who battled desperately
for their inclusion in the team for international or county cricket;
or, higher honour still, in the annual boat-race at Putney. Here the
younger brother had scored, as he was three in the Cambridge Eight,
and with another Australian was prepared to die at his oar, to uphold
the men of his country and college. As this classic contest, which
was to be decided before Good Friday, was now only a few days distant,
and arrangements had been already made, and invitations accepted, for
places in a house-boat, it may be imagined what feelings animated the
breasts of the entire family as the day of the absorbing fixture drew
nigh.
On one never-to-be-forgotten day the girls and their mother were taken
by the young men, proud of the privilege of escorting their handsome
sisters and the stately mother, over the precincts of Cambridge. The
day was fine, for a wonder—a soft sky—a gentle breeze—a day when
walking was a pleasure, and the fresh, pure air a delight. ‘There used
to be an old stone bridge over the Cam about here,’ said Reggie,
‘beside which the great Benedictine Monastery of the Fern had probably
something to do with the foundation of the University.’
‘Where did the students live?’ asked Hermione; ‘in the Monastery?’
‘They were lodged at first in the houses of the townspeople. The long
street, hereabouts, begins with Trumpington Road, but it ends in a
narrow lane, fronting Sepulchre Church. Here are, you see, the more
important Colleges. The students were possibly a more or less unruly
lot. At any rate, in 1231, Henry III., we are told, issued warrants
“for the Regulation of Cambridge Clerks.” Troublous times ensued, for
in Wat Tyler’s time the rabble (I beg their pardon), the labour party
of the period, sacked the Colleges, but were attacked and repulsed by
the young Bishop of Norwich.’
‘So bishops used to fight in those days?’
‘Yes, under stress of circumstances—there were several
instances—Bishop Odo was another priest militant. The rebellion did
not last long, fortunately; but Jack Cade only foreshadowed the
utterances of some of our latter-day legislators when he swore that
his horse should be put to grass in Cheapside.’
‘We should not like George and Pitt Streets to revert to kangaroo
grass again,’ said Vanda, who was highly conservative, ‘but worse
things have happened when the people got the upper hand.’
‘Let us hope that reasonable counsels will prevail,’ said
Mrs. Banneret; ‘in the meanwhile, suppose we explore this beautiful
building. What is it called?’
‘This is the famous Fitzwilliam Museum,’ answered Reggie, ‘to which
the Earl of that name bequeathed a picture gallery, a valuable
library, with 120 volumes of engravings, and a hundred thousand
pounds.’
‘A princely gift. Is this the Sculpture Gallery? How superb these
marbles are, and what lovely Greek vases!’
‘The building seems worthy of its contents,’ said Hermione. ‘What a
glorious façade! The portico and colonnades are worth a day’s study.
If we lived near I should spend hours and hours here.’
‘We haven’t half time enough for it to-day,’ said Eric; ‘there are
still the Ellison Pictures, the Botanic Gardens, and the Mesmer
Collection to see. It will take us till lunch time to look over the
Colleges.’
‘Are there many?’ asked Vanda.
‘Ever so many. Here is Trinity to lead off with; the largest
collegiate foundation in Europe, learned people say. The Masters’
Court was built at the expense of Doctor Whewell. You can see his
cipher, the “W.W.”’
‘“How reverend is the face of this tall pile,”’ quoted Hermione; ‘it
quite awes one. The grand architecture—the wondrous antiquity. No one
can sneer at these halls of learning.’
‘St. John’s College,’ said Eric ruthlessly, passing on, ‘is the second
largest. Has splendid restorations, I beg to observe. We needn’t wait
longer than to verify the armorial bearings of the foundress of this
and Christ’s College on that massive gateway.’
‘Let me look,’ said Vanda; ‘who was she?’
‘Margaret, Countess of Richmond, and mother of Henry VII. King’s
College was endowed and founded by Henry VI. in connection with Eton.’
‘I recollect,’ continued Vanda—‘“her Henry’s holy shade.”’
‘The Chapel,’ said Reggie, ‘is said to be an unequalled example of the
Perpendicular order of Gothic architecture, whatever that may be. This
fretted roof is not supported by a single pillar. It is vaulted in
twelve divisions. Each keystone weighs more than a ton.’
Before the day finished they had a modest lunch, where the famous
Trumpington ale was partaken of by the whole party as _de rigueur_
and a part of the performance. They saw the Roman ruins at
Grandchester, and mused over Byron’s pool. The visit to Girton College
was reserved for another day. At Stourbridge, the girls shuddered at
the sight of a disused chapel of an ancient edifice said to have been
an hospital for lepers.
‘Lepers here!’ exclaimed Vanda; ‘I didn’t know that there ever were
lepers in England.’
‘They were common enough, not only in Britain but throughout the
continent of Europe in the Middle Ages,’ explained Reggie; ‘they had
to carry bells and give warning as they walked, were forbidden to
enter towns and villages, and so on.’
‘How dreadful! What a comfort that we don’t live among such horrors.
That was what Nurse Lilburne’s husband was supposed to have been torn
away from her and shut up, on that dreadful island, for—only on
suspicion too! Where are we now, Eric?’
‘This is Madingley, where the King, as Prince of Wales, lived when he
was at Cambridge. Gray’s “Elegy” was written there, it is supposed.’
‘Oh, how delightful! I wonder if they made his Royal Highness learn it
by heart, like all of us.
‘The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, etc.
“Lea” means “meadow” in English, doesn’t it? “River flat” in early
Australian, like “mob” for “drove,” “paddock” for “field,” “rise” for
“hill,” and so on.
All necessary arrangements had been carefully made long before the
great day—the Carnival of the Thames. What hopes and expectations had
been careering through the minds of the young people during the
preceding period! Visions of a lovely spring day, when the riverside
region would be glorified with budding willow, oak and elm, lime and
chestnut; where the nightingales at eve would sing a pæan for the
victors—Cambridge, of course; for were there not two Australians in
their boat—the Banneret boat? a circumstance unique in the University
river-history. Then, again, depression, deepening to despair, as the
weather prophets and the cloudy skies foretold evil,—a drizzle, if
not a downpour. In such case what was to become of the lovely
boating suits, the hats, the dresses, the parasols, bewitching,
irresistible?—soaked, muddied, limp. The girls dismal and
unattractive; the boys—the men—wretched and cross—or worse, reckless
and disgusted. The picture was intolerable.
‘I shall drown myself,’ said Vanda—when for the twentieth time the
subject was discussed at breakfast—‘I know I shall, if our boat
doesn’t win, and be fished up from the oozy Thames by some “waterside
character,” or jump overboard in the intoxication of victory. Either
way I shall hardly survive the event—I——’
‘Here comes mother!’ interposed Hermione, who, naturally, as became
the elder sister, was less impulsive and demonstrative; ‘perhaps she
will think it better that you should stay at home, rather than display
the _Bride from the Bush_ characteristics before an English audience.’
‘Oh, that hateful novel! Thanks, sister dear! You have hit upon the
true corrective. I promise to be “splendidly, icily null,” rather
than give myself away to the sneering English of the period. Oh,
mother, _do_ you think it will rain? Whatever shall we do?’
‘Who was talking about suicide, just now? I thought I caught a word or
two of nonsensical threats, as I was nearing the door. If I thought
daughters of mine——’
‘Oh, darling mother, don’t go on! I know what you are going to say,’
entreated the penitent girl; ‘it was only my nonsense. Why, Eric said
the other day that two of the men in the Oxford crew had resolved in
the case of defeat to study for the Church and go in for slum
curacies.’
‘I never doubted that young men as well as young women could talk
nonsense,’ conceded Mrs. Arnold, with benevolent candour; ‘but in the
meantime suppose we wait a little longer before we go into heroics
about the weather, which we cannot alter or defy.’
‘I second the motion,’ said Mr. Banneret, who at that moment entered
the room with the _Times_ in his hand. ‘I don’t like to hear the
question of the weather discussed flippantly. It is too serious a
subject. I have known more than one case where a poor fellow committed
suicide because it _didn’t rain_. It meant ruin to him: the loss of
twenty years’ work and self-denial. So there was some sort of excuse.
But complaints and cheap wit about so grave a subject are out of
place. I believe that the day will be fine after all. We shall see.’
‘Then I will promise and vow to be good for a month,’ said Hermione.
‘Vanda will not compare old and new countries in mixed society; Reggie
will not wear his superior English manner; and Eric will read steadily
for his degree, even if he has to be an Australian squatter.’
‘I suppose I ought to take one for the credit of my native land,’ said
Eric, ‘but I am going to be a colonist whatever happens. I’ve no
notion of loafing about in England. There are too many of that sort
here already. There’s a trying season coming, unless I mistake the
signs of the times—industrial warfare as well as the other thing. And
I mean to be in the thick of it.’
‘And so will I,’ said Reggie, ‘as soon as I get my double first. I’m
going in for Australian politics.’
‘What good will it be to you out there?’ said Eric.
‘That’s my business, but I can’t think that an all-round University
training can unfit a man for any career, at home or abroad. There may
be a temporary prejudice; but if a man shapes his course sensibly, he
is bound to be of more weight, even in a democratic assembly, with
such an addition to his intelligence, than without. Look at William
Charles Wentworth—Dalley—John Lang, and others. The two first were the
darlings of the people (Dalley an Imperial Privy Councillor), and
always exercised immense political power. Lang was acknowledged to be
a brilliant linguist and successful barrister in India. Sir James
Martin, too, though without University training, was a man of such
phenomenal and comprehensive intellect, that he was independent of
it. He filled the highest political and legal positions with
unexampled success. His last act as Chief Justice of New South Wales
proved, strange to say, posthumously successful. An important and
complicated mining case was heard before the Full Court, composed of
Sir James and two Judges, during his last illness. It was given in
favour of the complainants by a majority of the Justices, Sir James
dissenting. He left his reasons, stated in writing. The defendants
appealed to the Privy Council. Some delay occurred. In the meantime
Sir James, who had been for some time ailing, died. The decision of
the Privy Council came out shortly after. It was in favour of the
appellants, thus upholding, even from the grave, the soundness of the
dead Judge’s opinion and legal knowledge.’
The day before the great boat-race of the year was doubtful. _The_ day
was, however, altogether charming and delicious. The wind of yesterday
had died down. The few soft, fleecy clouds that flecked the sky, the
fair blue firmament of the last week in March, had almost, of course
not wholly, disappeared, as they would have done in Australia. Still
it was a delicious day. Even Vanda admitted this, though prone to
disparage the old land in comparison with the new. They were all
suitably attired and ready to start directly after an early breakfast.
The girls’ boating costumes, as each had promised to accept a passage
in a club-boat, rowed by an ardent admirer, left nothing to be
desired. Such hats, such skirts, such parasols, and, of course, the
Cambridge colours! They had had some practice in a four-oar in Sydney
Harbour since they had come to live on the shores of that peerless
waterway. So they considered themselves judges of the art and science
of rowing, and were disposed to be critical and competent spectators.
Their patriotic feelings were deeply stirred, for were there not two,
really two, colonials in the Cambridge crew—a circumstance almost
unparalleled in the annals of University racing. Of course they knew
that the Diamond Sculls had been won by Mr. Ronaldson, of Western
Victoria, and twenty-five years after by his son, of the South African
Mounted Infantry, both Australian born. This they knew, for he was a
neighbour of theirs, and they had seen the sculls in the library at
‘The Peak.’ They knew, too, that for years past there had been no
’Varsity boat-race without an Australian in one or other, generally in
both, of the contesting boats. Still, ‘You never can tell till the
colours are up,’ is a racing adage as well on water as on land. They
knew how true, in the great races they had watched at Randwick and
Flemington, and their gentle bosoms fluttered each time when the
heartshaking thought would intrude that it _might_ be their hard lot
to see the shadow of Barnes Bridge fleet over the Oxford boat a few
seconds before it crossed that of Cambridge. They had experienced such
disappointments in their lives—had seen Tarcoola, a Lower Darling
outsider, win the Melbourne Cup, when the family money—not very much,
for Mr. Banneret discouraged gambling in all forms, but what Vanda
called ‘their hard-earned savings,’ put together in shillings,
sixpences, and even threepenny bits—was on Toreador.
This malign stroke of fortune they had borne and survived. But the
personal element was so intermingled with _this_ event that if it did
not come off, the future was dark indeed.
They kept their race-glasses fixed on the boats as the men were
getting in. How handsome Eric looked, and how proud they were of him!
An inch or two over six feet in height, yet not looking it from the
perfect symmetry of his figure, effectively displayed by the boating
costume, many a girl’s heart went out to him besides those of his
adoring sisters, and many a fervent wish, not to say prayer, ascended
as the Cambridge boat, wildly cheered, tore out and took her place by
Putney Bridge. Then Oxford followed, amidst shouts that shook the air,
rowing, for her, a quicker stroke than usual. If she can keep it up,
what price Cambridge? The thought was maddening, and the girls’ faces
began to look gravely anxious.
On the river’s banks a human hive seems to have settled. Black are the
bridges, the lawns, the balconies, and the windows. The crowded
steamers must be dangerously o’erladen; and surely the protagonists,
in this grand trial of skill, strength, and endurance, will task every
sinew, muscle, limb, and heart-valve to win the laurel crown of the
year. The English crews fight for their College, their Alma Mater; but
the Australians are for their respective Colonies, _their_ native
land: to show, as they have done in other historic rivalry, that the
sons of Greater Britain are on a level in this as in other respects
with their relatives from the wondrous isles from which their fathers
came. ‘I ride for my county,’ quoth Valentine Maher. In much the same
sense as the West of Ireland member of ‘The Blazers’ rode, the
colonial champions in the Cambridge boat may each have vowed, as they
stretched each manly thew and sinew, to do a man’s best for the good
land for which their fathers had toiled and striven and fought in the
long-past years; with droughts and fires, blacks, bushrangers, and
other foes of the pioneer—resulting, alas! not seldom, in total wreck
and financial ruin after the work of a life’s best years.
However, these are not holiday thoughts. The present is sunlit and
joyous; let us enjoy it while we may. There is a temporary cessation
of the murmurous, confused, unintelligible growl of the crowds. The
course is clear. The boats are off—_off_! The race has begun. So has
the true excitement, the desperate struggle of the swarming crowds on
the swaying steamers and the towing path.
‘Oh! which is in front?’ cries Vanda. ‘Don’t say it is Oxford, or I
can never survive this day.’
‘Don’t be a goose,’ says Reggie magisterially. ‘Watch Hammersmith
Bridge. There—I thought as much—Cambridge is ahead.’
‘Hurrah!’ called out Hermione, who up to this point had been discreet
and decorous. ‘Oh, I beg pardon! but the strain was too great. Look
at that girl, with the Oxford colours and a pink parasol—how she is
waving it about. They hadn’t parasols, I suppose, in those days, or
I’m sure Rowena would have waved hers at Ashby-de-la-Zouche, when
Ivanhoe’s lance sent the Templar rolling in the lists. That was an
exciting affair, if you like. How I should have liked to have been
there!’
‘Hermione,’ said her mother, ‘we shall have to leave you at home next
time if you cannot control your feelings; you are doing your country
an injustice by your want of _retenue_.’
‘Look out for Barnes,’ said Reggie, in low, vibrating tones, as of one
who had no time for trifling. ‘By Jove! Cambridge has put up a spurt
and drawn level. How they’re shouting on the bridge. Cambridge!
Cambridge! The light blue for ever! Cambridge wins!’
It is even so. Cambridge leaves rowing, and one—two—three—four seconds
pass before Oxford finishes. The great race is over for the year. Eric
and his crew are on the wharf before the Ship Inn, at Mortlake. Happy
heroes—‘o’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious.’ Victors in a world-famed
contest. The news flashed within a few minutes to all the centres of
the old world and the new. It is not, ‘What will they say in England?’
although that is of as much or more engrossing interest to the
colonist as to the home-born Briton; but also, ‘What will they say in
Sydney and Melbourne, Adelaide and Hobart, Brisbane and Perth—ay, in
distant Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie?’ In everyone of these aggregations
of people and commerce, where divers nations are represented and
various tongues are spoken, there will be a knot of watchers at the
telegraph offices to know if the news of the great race has ‘come
through,’ and many a wager will be won and lost as each man of
sporting tastes and traditions has backed his fancy, whether with the
dark blue or the light. There will be healths drunk in far-off lands
to-night, and to-night recollections of the Trumpington ale, of walks
along ‘the Backs,’ where the Cam ‘wanders through frequent arches,
with groves and gardens of unique beauty,’ will recur to grizzled
graduates of Cambridge and Oxford.
This great and crowning mercy having been vouchsafed to them, by which
the Bannerets, young and old, would for evermore hold themselves to be
indissolubly linked with the Cambridge victory, the family had leisure
to consider what should be their next inroad into sport amid
fashionable surroundings. Hermione and Vanda had enjoyed the ecstatic
pleasure of being rowed on the broad expanse of Father Thames; had
also been congratulated by the men of their brothers’ college on
Eric’s noble performance, which (they said) had materially aided in
the glorious victory. These Austral maidens had thereupon come to the
conclusion that nothing in the world came up to the accessories and
environments amid which the nobler sports were transacted in England.
They wondered what would be the next open-air entertainment at which
they would be likely to assist, and as the weather, for a wonder, was
becoming finer every day, _almost_ rivalling the glorious sunshine of
their native land, some one threw out a suggestion about the Liverpool
Grand National Steeplechase, to come off on the 25th—next week,
indeed—at Aintree.