A CHRISTMAS DIP.
There are few more exhilarating things, on a breezy spring morning, than
a spurt across that wonderful rus in urbe--Kensington Gardens and Hyde
Park--for a prospective dip in the Serpentine, where, at specified hours
every morning and evening, water-loving London is privileged to disport
itself in its congenial element. So congenial is it, in fact, that some
enthusiastic individuals do not limit themselves to warm summer
mornings, or the cooler ones of springtide and autumn, but bathe all the
year round--even, it is said, when a way for their manoeuvres has to be
cut through the ice. Skirting the north bank of the Serpentine at
morning or evening in the summer, the opposite shore appears absolutely
pink with nude humanity, the younger portion dancing and gambolling very
much after the manner of Robinson Crusoe's cannibals. The bathers
occasionally look a great deal better out of their integuments than in
them. Not from this class, however, do your all-the-year-round bathers
come. The Arab is an exotic--a child of the Sun, loving not to disport
himself in water the temperature of which shocks his tentative
knuckles, as he dips them in the unaccustomed element. His wardrobe,
again, is too much after the fashion of that pertaining to Canning's
needy knife-grinder to make an al fresco toilette other than
embarrassing. From the all-the-year-round bathers, as a nucleus, there
has grown up, within the last few years, the Serpentine Swimming Club;
and on Christmas-day in the morning they have an annual match open to
all comers--though, it need scarcely be said, patronized only by those
whom, for brevity's sake, we may term all-rounders.
Now, I had often heard of this Christmas-day match, and as often, on
Christmas-eve, made up my mind to go; but the evening's resolution faded
away, as such resolutions have only too often been known to do, before
the morning's light. This year, however--principally, I believe, because
I had been up very late the previous night--I struggled out of bed
before dawn, and steered for the Serpentine. A crescent moon was
shining, and stars studded the clear spaces between ominous patches of
cloud. A raw, moist wind was blowing, and on the muddy streets were
evident traces of a recent shower. I had no notion that the gates of
Kensington Gardens were open so early; and the sensation was novel as I
threaded the devious paths in morning dawn, and saw the gas still alight
along the Bayswater Road. A solitary thrush was whistling his Christmas
carol as I struggled over the inundated sward; presently the sun threw a
few red streaks along the East, over the Abbey Tower; but, until I had
passed the Serpentine Bridge, not a single human being met my gaze.
There, however, I found some fifty men, mostly with a "sporting" look
about them. The ubiquitous boy was there, playing at some uncomfortable
game in the puddles round the seats. The inevitable dog stood pensively
by the diving board; and when, by-and-by straggling all-rounders came
and took their morning header, the quadruped rushed after them to the
very edge of the water, as though he had been a distinguished member of
the Humane Society. He shirked the element itself, however, as
religiously as though he had been one of London's great unwashed. In the
pause which preceded the race, I learned, from the Honorary Secretary of
the Serpentine Swimming Club, particulars of its history and of the race
itself. For six years it had been merely a club race; but last year it
was thrown open. Strangely enough the race had never been won twice by
one man, though the competitors had been pretty much the same every
year. I also conversed with one of the intending competitors, who showed
me on his breast with pardonable pride, five medals of the Royal Humane
Society, awarded for saving life in cases of danger from drowning. The
wearer was a Professor of Natation, and told me that, among his pupils,
he had an old lady sixty-seven years of age, who had just commenced, and
was able to swim some twenty yards already. The brave old lady's
example may do good; though it is to be hoped that she may not, at her
time of life, be compelled to exert her art for her own protection.
Names were now called, and fourteen competitors presented themselves--a
motley group, clad for the most part in trousers, horse-rug, and
wide-awake, or, more simply still, in Ulster frieze coat only. The group
of spectators had by this time grown to some hundreds, nearly all
directly interested in the noble art; and the dips became fast and
frequent. Two flags were placed in the water at the distance of 100
yards from the diving board; on this slender platform fourteen shivering
specimens of humanity ranged themselves, and at the word of the starter
plunged into the water with that downward plunge so incomprehensible to
the uninitiated. A short, sharp struggle followed, the competitors
swimming with the sidelong movement and obstreperous puffing which
likens the swimmer so closely to the traditional grampus. Eventually one
of the group is seen heading the others, and breasting the water with
calm and equable stroke in the old-fashioned style. He reaches the flag
a full yard before his nearest antagonist. Numbers two and three,
following, are about half a yard apart. The others come in pretty much
in a group. All were picked men, and there were no laggards. The names
of the winners were as follows:--1. Ainsworth; 2. Quartermain; 3. H.
Coulter. The time occupied in the race was 1 min. 24 sec. Immediately
after the race there was a rapid re-assumption of rugs and Ulsters,
though some of the more hardy walked about in the garb of Nature, making
everybody shiver who looked at them. Finally, the prizes, consisting of
three handsome medals, were distributed by Mr. H. Bedford, who stood on
a park seat and addressed a few genial words to each of the successful
candidates; then, with a cheer, and frequent wishes for a Merry
Christmas, the assembly resolved itself into its component parts.
I had taken my accustomed cold tub before coming out, yet each of these
fourteen devoted men appeared to me as a hero. They were not Herculean
individuals: several of them were mere youths. Some of the all-rounders
were grey-headed men, but there was about them all a freshness and
ruddiness which showed that their somewhat severe regimen agreed with
them. Fresh from such a Spartan exhibition, everything seemed very late
and Sybaritic in my domestic establishment, and I could not help
revolving in my mind the question, what would one of these hardy
all-the-year-rounders think of me if he knew I was ever guilty of such a
malpractice as breakfast in bed? It is a novel method; but there are
many worse ways of inaugurating the Great Holiday than by taking--what
it had been a novel sensation for me even to witness--a Christmas Dip in
the Serpentine.