THE EIGHTS.
April slipped away, and it was the evening of the 30th. Frank had dined
in Hall; he had been to all his lectures that morning. He knew the
work for the next day. There was no need, therefore, he thought, for
further work. Turning out of the Lodge-gates, hardly knowing where he
was going, he strolled into the High; and just by Spiers’ he met a new
acquaintance--Morton, of Magdalen.
“Where are you off, Ross?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” answered Frank; “nowhere particular.”
The fact is, Frank had been drifting of late into these evening
rambles to “nowhere particular.” And a good deal of time they occupied
too.
“You’d better come down to my rooms. I’ve got one or two fellows coming
in for a hand at whist.”
Frank, not being the impossible model young man of the story-books, did
not resist the invitation, but, linking his arm into Morton’s, went
off to Magdalen. The April night was not so warm that a fire was not
pleasant. Morton’s rooms were in the old quad, looking out towards the
new buildings and the deer-park. The curtains were drawn and the lights
burning. Several little tables were laid with dessert, and one cleared
in the centre of the room, with packs of cards upon it. There were
about a dozen men present.
Dessert over, cards began; but it was not whist. Everybody voted that
slow. Frank himself thought that he never had played so enticing a game
as loo. When he knocked in that night at five minutes to twelve, he
fancied the porter eyed him suspiciously and knew that he had returned
_minus_ a few pounds and _plus_ a racking headache. His suspicions were
right. Few read more rightly or more quickly the character and career
of the undergraduates than the porters who open to them nightly.
But, in spite of his headache, Frank managed to be up at four o’clock
next morning. He had accepted Morton’s invitation to breakfast at six,
after hearing the choir sing the May-Morning Hymn on the college tower.
George, the porter, as he opened the Lodge-gates to Frank and others,
thought, in spite of his pale face, that he at least could not have
been up to much mischief last night, or he would not have been up so
early after it. And George, usually infallible, began to retract his
last night’s opinion.
As he stood on the leads and looked down through the grey battlements
on the faint fresh green that was brightening the trees in the
Botanical Gardens; on the distant spires and towers; and on the less
fortunate crowds in the street below; and as the sweet voices of the
choir rose and blended through the soft morning air, a feeling, whether
it was regret or remorse he hardly knew, came over him. Anyhow he felt
that this was a sweeter, purer pleasure than the gambling of last
night, and confessed to himself that he had been “an utter fool for his
pains.”
It was a blazing afternoon about the end of May. The river--meaning
thereby the Isis, the main river, to distinguish it from its tributary
the Cherwell--was deserted save for a few energetic men in outrigged
skiffs practising for sculling races, and the boatmen, in charge of the
various college barges, sweltering in the sun, and, as fast as the heat
would allow them, making preparations for the work of the evening. The
Cherwell, with its slow, shady stream, its winding banks and drooping
trees, was the favourite resort, but even here all was quiet. Every
now and then a canoe flashed by lazily, or a punt plunged up in search
of some cool nook. There was a momentary disturbance, perhaps, as it
bumped against one already moored; and pairs of sleepy eyes would look
up to scowl at the new-comer, if a stranger; or greet him lazily if a
friend.
Just in one of the pleasantest corners, Frank and Monkton had fixed
their craft, and were lying face upwards on a couple of enormous
cushions--Monkton smoking or pretending to smoke; Frank reading or
pretending to read.
“Are you going to stay for the Eights?” asked Monkton.
“Rather,” answered Frank. “Why? aren’t you?”
“No, not I! In the first place, I don’t care about them; and in the
second place, I’ve promised Morton to drive to Abingdon at seven. It’ll
be getting cool then.”
“It seems to me you’re rather fond of going to Abingdon,” answered
Frank. “What’s the attraction?”
“My dear boy, ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies”--and at that
moment a punt ran right into them.
“Now then, sir, look ahead!” spluttered Monkton as their punt was
nearly upset, and his cigar falling from his mouth burnt a small hole
in his flannel trousers. The intruder apologized and plunged on again
to disturb the rest of other unlucky beings.
“Well,” went on Frank, “I’m glad I’ve not to pay your bill for
pony-traps, that’s all.”
“Oh, well, as far as that goes,” retorted Monkton, waking up a little,
“that don’t trouble me. I patronize the trustful Traces, and I’m sure
the trustful one would be quite embarrassed if I offered to pay him; so
I don’t. That’s all.”
“Does your governor give you an allowance?” asked Frank.
“Not he. He told me not to get into debt, and to send in the bills. And
a fellow can’t live like a hermit. I’ve always had a horse at home, so
I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one here. But I’m not proud, and so I
hire a pony instead, and I’m sure the old man ought not to mind.”
“Come out of that, you lazy young beggar!” called a voice in
Frank’s ears, and looking up he saw Crawford in one of those little
cockle-shells in which Mr. Verdant Green so highly distinguished
himself--“Aren’t you coming down to see the Eights?”
Monkton looked at Crawford with that expression of half insolence, half
fear, which characterizes so many freshmen, and drawled out,--
“Yes; Ross is going. He’s so energetic, you know.”
“That’s a blessing, at all events,” answered Crawford, “as long as
there are fellows like you, about.”
“By Jove!” said Frank, pulling out his watch, “it’s getting late. If
you’re going to Abingdon at seven, Monkton, you’ll have to look sharp.”
“Going to Abingdon?” asked Crawford, half to himself, and getting no
answer from Monkton.
“Look here! I say, you fellows! can’t you manage to get this punt back
to the barges, and let me cut up through the meadows?” said Monkton. “I
promised to be in Morton’s rooms at half-past six, and it’s just on six
now.”
“All right,” said Frank, “Crawford will help me back with the
punt”--really glad to get rid of him, for his younger and his older
friend did not hit it off exactly.
“It strikes me that young man is beginning rather early,” said Crawford
paternally, as he lashed his boat to the punt and got in, much to
Frank’s relief, for it was his first day in a punt.
The latter did not say much, for he had himself commenced various
extensive dealings with the trustful tradesmen--trustful, that is, for
two years, but most distrustful afterwards--and he feared questioning
and an inevitable lecture from Crawford.
By the time they reached the barges, the river and banks were getting
crowded. The band was assembling on the ’Varsity barge (that belonging
to the University Boat Club); and all the other college barges were
in a bustle of excitement. It was “the first night of the Eights,”
and many were the attempts to explain that somewhat elliptical phrase
to the uninitiated matrons and maidens who were flocking from every
quarter of the town.
Just at the mouth of the Cherwell, Crawford and Frank met a party of
ladies and escorted them to the Paul’s barge; and the latter, though he
fancied he was clear as to the meaning of “Eights” and “Torpids,” was
really not sorry to overhear his friend’s explanation.
“You see,” Crawford was saying to a pretty girl with bright blue eyes,
that certainly did not seem to be reminded that they could see--“You
see, every college, that is athletic enough, has a Boat Club; the best
eight oars, rowers I mean, constitute ‘_the_ Eight;’ the second best
eight are ‘the Torpid.’ The Torpid-races, or as we call them, ‘the
Torpids,’ take place in the Lent term; every college that has an Eight
and a Torpid enters the latter for the Torpid-races; and then they all
row to see which is best. Then in the Summer term ‘the Eights’ are on;
that is the races of the college Eight-oars; to-night is the first
night, you know. All the Eights are going to row to see which is best.”
“Yes; but,” said Blue-eyes, “why do they have more than one race?”
“Well, you see”--Crawford could not help the phrase--“that is--er--it’s
rather difficult to explain.”
But after a moment he took courage, and plunged into his explanation,
which was to this effect, and which may assist the uninitiated reader.
The river is too narrow to admit of boats racing abreast. They are
therefore arranged one behind the other, there being 120 feet from
the nose of one to the stern of the other. All start simultaneously,
the object of each being to “bump”--_i.e._ run into and touch the one
in front of it. When a “bump” has taken place, both the “bumper” and
the “bumped” row to the bank to let the others pass. There is a post
opposite the barges, where most of the spectators sit, and when once a
boat has passed this it cannot be bumped. The following night--called
“night,” but really meaning seven o’clock--the boats all start, with
this exception, that if, for example, on Monday Balliol has bumped
Christ-Church, on Tuesday Balliol will start ahead of Christ-Church.
The latter then has the chance of regaining its position by bumping
Balliol, but it is also exposed to the danger of being bumped by the
next boat. This goes on, in the case of the “Torpid,” for six days; of
the “Eights,” for eight “nights.” At the end, the boat that finishes
with all the others behind it, holds the proud position of “Head of
the River” for the year. It may have gained this by making “bumps,” or
by avoiding being “bumped.” How the order was, in the origin of the
races, settled, it is impossible to say; but it is the rule that any
college club which “puts on”--_i.e._ enters a boat for the races--for
the first time shall start at the bottom. Perhaps, after this
explanation, any remaining difficulty will be cleared up by suggesting,
as an illustration, a school-class, in which a place is gained for
a successful answer. The boats, by “bumping” and being “bumped,”
respectively gain and lose places.
Crawford was rowing in the Brasenose Eight. So, after seeing his lady
friends to seats on the top of the college barge, he ran down-stairs
to dress for the race. The men who rowed in the Brasenose Eight and
Torpid were unlike the majority of men of other colleges, in that they
walked to the river in _mufti_, and put on their boating-clothes in
their barge. Frank, pleading an excuse that he wanted to go down the
Berkshire bank to see the start, but chiefly because he was rather shy,
left Crawford’s party to the attention of some other men, and, crossing
in old George West’s punt, was soon lost in the crowd.
One by one the boats paddled down to the start, cheered by their own
men as they passed. The crowd thickened. A great surging mass pressed
up against the rails that enclosed the barges, and gazed enviously at
the lucky ones within the enclosure. A black line went coiling down the
pathway towards Iffley. Those were the men who would see the start, and
run back with the boats to cheer them on. Presently there was a great
silence. Everybody was looking right away to the Iffley Willows, or at
watches. Then the first gun went. Conversation flowed again for four
minutes. Then the one-minute gun--and then utter silence, till with the
third boom a roar of voices began, that came nearer and louder as the
great black line began coiling home again, as fast as it could.
Brasenose was Head of the River; and Blue-eyes was wearing the
Brasenose colours; and Blue-eyes’ heart, though she would not have
confessed it, was in a flutter of excitement. On came the boats.
Balliol was close behind Brasenose. The Brasenose men on bank and
barge shouted. The Balliol men shouted more loudly. They must catch
them. Blue-eyes hated the Balliol men; but, for all that, the nose of
the Balliol boat was within a foot of the Brasenose rudder. Now it
overlapped it, but failed to touch it, for the Brasenose coxswain, by a
sharp pull of the rudder-string, turned a rush of water against their
nose and washed them off.
The Brasenose men yelled till Blue-eyes felt the drums of her little
ears were nigh to cracking. And then Crawford, who was rowing stroke,
seemed to pull himself together for a final effort, and laying himself
well out, gave his men a longer stroke. Now they were clear--now there
was a foot between them--now two--now three. Then he quickened: his men
answered bravely. Foot by foot they drew ahead, and when they were on
the post, Balliol was a good length behind. Blue-eyes had often heard,
“See, the Conquering Hero comes,” but she could not make out why the
sound of it now gave her a choking feeling in the throat. Certainly she
saw no more of the races, though boat by boat came by, each in as keen
pursuit of the one just in advance of it as Balliol had been to catch
Brasenose.
There was a merry party that night in Crawford’s rooms, and Blue-eyes
sat by the host, and was highly amused at the plain fare he was obliged
to eat in the midst of the dainties of the supper-table; and she was
half inclined to be cross when at a quarter to ten the captain of the
Boat Club, who was present, firmly but politely suggested the breaking
up of the party--“unless,” he explained, “you want to see Brasenose go
down to-morrow night.”
But men must work, or at any rate go in for examinations, whatever
the women may do. So the “Eights” passed away, and Blue-eyes returned
to her home, taking with her, from many, the sunshine she had brought.
The Proctor’s notices recalled Frank and several hundred other
unfortunates to the stern realities of University life. Parted for a
while in the all-too-brief days of Blue-eyes’ supremacy, Monkton and
Frank drifted together again by the force of kindred obligations.
Together they went to the Junior Proctor, and entered their names for
Responsions (commonly called “Smalls,” “because such a werry small
number on ’em gets through,” as the guides will tell you); together
they parted with the statutable guinea, fondly hoping that in due time
they would get a tangible result in the shape of a testamur. Together
they gazed admiringly, nor yet without awe, at their names when they
appeared in the Gazette; and together, in white ties and “garments
of a subfusc hue,” as prescribed by the statutes, they proceeded one
bright morning in June to the Schools. There for two days, from nine to
twelve, and from half-past one to half-past three, they were examined
by papers. Then, after waiting a few days, Monkton’s _vivâ voce_ came
on, the order of this being alphabetical. But when at two o’clock the
same day the Clerk of the Schools read out a list of those who had
passed, and for the gladly-paid shilling handed over a small piece of
blue paper, testifying the fact in the handwriting of the much-enduring
Examiners, Monkton’s testamur was, alas! not forthcoming. Frank did not
pass as easily as he might have passed. The last few weeks had taken
the polish off his work. He got his testamur, it is true, but he was
rather ashamed of feeling relieved, for he knew that he ought never to
have had any fears of failing in such a school-boy examination.
He called on his tutor to consult him as to his future work. The First
Public Examination (commonly called Moderations) is, like Responsions,
obligatory on all; but here the student may offer either the minimum
amount of work, called “a Pass,” or go in for Honours either in
Classics or Mathematics. The Honours Examination is to chiefly test
style of translation from Latin and Greek authors into English, and
_vice versâ_, together with grammatical and critical questions bearing
on the contents, style, and literary history of the books offered.
Papers are also set in the Elements of Comparative Philology; the
History of the Greek Drama, with Aristotle’s Poetics; and the Elements
of Deductive Logic, with either selections from the Organon, or from
Mill’s “Inductive Logic.” The four Gospels in Greek, together with
questions on the subject-matter, are compulsory on all,--Passmen and
Classmen alike. After the examination is over, the examiners (in this
instance called Moderators) distribute the names of those whom they
judge to have shown sufficient merit into three classes, the names in
each class being arranged alphabetically. If a candidate is not good
enough to be placed in a class, but has yet shown as much knowledge as
is required of the ordinary Passmen, he receives a testamur to that
effect. This is called a “gulf.” The subjects for Pass Moderations are
Latin Prose (rather more difficult than for Responsions); the elements
of Logic, or Arithmetic and Algebra to Quadratic Equations; unseen
passages of Greek and Latin; and three authors, of whom one must be
Greek, and one must be either an Orator, Philosopher, or Historian.
After a little questioning, Mr. Wood’s advice to Frank was to go in
for a Pass, and, that over, to read for Honours in one of the Final
Schools, such as Modern History or Law. The advice was wise, for his
classical reading was not very much advanced; and even if he could have
got through the bare reading of the necessary text-books, he would not
have acquired the style of translation and elegance in composition
needed for the highest honours.
He chose Logic in preference to Mathematics, by Mr. Wood’s advice; and
for his authors, Herodotus (Books V. and VI.); Livy (Books V., VI., and
VII.), and Juvenal, certain Satires being omitted. Having purchased
these books, and laid in a good store of industrious intentions, he
left Oxford and his freshman’s term behind him, not at all sorry to be
going home.