"What's the time, Smith?"
"Half-past three, old fellow," answered Diogenes, looking at his
watch.
"I never knew a day go so slowly," said Tom; "isn't it time to go
down to the boats?"
"Not by two hours and more, old fellow--can't you take a book, or
something to keep you quiet? You won't be fit for anything by six
o'clock, if you go on worrying like this." And so Diogenes turned
himself to his flute, and blew away to all appearances as
composedly as if it had been the first week of term, though, if
the truth must be told, it was all he could do not to get up and
wander about in a feverish and distracted state, for Tom's
restlessness infected him.
Diogenes' whole heart was in the college boat; and so, though he
had pulled dozens of races in his time, he was almost as nervous
as a freshman on this the first day of the races. Tom, all
unconscious of the secret discomposure of the other, threw
himself into a chair and looked at him with wonder and envy. The
flute went "toot, toot, toot," till he could stand it no longer.
So he got up and went to the window, and, leaning out, looked up
and down the street for some minutes in a purposeless sort of
fashion, staring hard at everybody and everything, but
unconscious all the time that he was doing so. He would not have
been able in fact, to answer Diogenes a word, had not that worthy
inquired of him what he had seen, when he presently drew in his
head and returned to his fidgety ramblings about the room.
"How hot the sun is! but there's a stiff breeze from the
south-east. I hope it will go down before the evening, don't
you?"
"Yes, this wind will make it very rough below the Gut. Mind you
feather high now at starting."
"I hope to goodness I sha'n't catch a crab," said Tom.
"Don't think about it, old fellow; that's your best plan."
"But I can't think of anything else," said Tom. "What the deuce
is the good of telling a fellow not to think about it?"
Diogenes apparently had nothing particular to reply, for he put
his flute to his mouth again; and at the sound of the "toot,
toot" Tom caught up his gown and fled into the quadrangle.
The crew had had their early dinner of steaks and chops, stale
bread, and a glass and a half of old beer a piece at two o'clock,
in the Captain's rooms. The current theory of training at that
time was--as much meat as you could eat, the more underdone the
better, and the smallest amount of drink upon which you could
manage to live. Two pints in the twenty-four hours was all that
most boat's crews that pretended to train at all were allowed,
and for the last fortnight it had been the nominal allowance of
the St. Ambrose crew. The discomfort of such a diet in the hot
summer months, when you were at the same time taking regular and
violent exercise, was something very serious. Outraged human
nature rebelled against it; and though they did not admit it in
public, there were very few men who did not rush to their water
bottles for relief, more or less often, according to the
development of their bumps of conscientiousness and obstinacy. To
keep to the diet at all strictly involved a very respectable
amount of physical endurance. Our successors have found out the
unwisdom of this, as of other old superstitions; and that in
order to get a man into training for a boat-race now-a-days, it
is not of the first importance to keep him in a constant state of
consuming thirst, and the restlessness of body and sharpness of
temper which thirst generally induces.
Tom appreciated the honor of being in the boat in his first year
so keenly, that he had almost managed to keep to his training
allowance, and consequently, now that the eventful day had
arrived, was in a most uncomfortable frame of body and
disagreeable frame of mind.
He fled away from Diogenes' flute, but found no rest. He tried
Drysdale. That hero was lying on his back on his sofa playing
with Jack, and only increased Tom's thirst and soured his temper
by the viciousness of his remarks on boating, and everything and
person connected therewith; above all, on Miller, who had just
come up, had steered them the day before, and pronounced the crew
generally, and Drysdale in particular, "not half trained."
Blake's oak was sported, as usual. Tom looked in at the Captain's
door, but found him hard at work reading, and so carried himself
off; and, after a vain hunt after others of the crew, and even
trying to sit down and read, first a novel, then a play of
Shakespeare, with no success whatever, wandered away out of the
college, and found himself in five minutes, by a natural and
irresistible attraction, on the university barge.
There were half a dozen men or so reading the papers, and a group
or two discussing the coming races. Amongst other things the
chances of St. Ambrose's making a bump the first night were
weighed. Every one joining in praising the stroke, but there were
great doubts whether the crew could live up to it. Tom carried
himself on to the top of the barge to get out of hearing, for
listening made his heart beat and his throat drier than ever. He
stood on the top and looked right away down to the Gut, the
strong wind blowing his gown about. Not even a pair oar was to be
seen; the great event of the evening made the river a solitude at
this time of day. Only one or two skiffs were coming home,
impelled by reading men, who took their constitutionals on the
water, and were coming in to be in time for afternoon chapel. The
fastest and best of these soon came near enough for Tom to
recognize Hardy's stroke; so he left the barge and went down to
meet the servitor at his landing, and accompanied him to the St.
Ambrose dressing-room.
"Well, how do you feel for the race to-night?" said Hardy, as he
dried his neck and face, which he had been sluicing with cold
water, looking as hardy and bright as a racer on Derby day.
"Oh, wretched! I'm afraid I shall break down" said Tom, and
pouring out some of his doubts and miseries. Hardy soon comforted
him greatly; and by the time they were half across Christchurch
meadow, he was quite in heart again. For he knew how well Hardy
understood rowing, and what a sound judge he was; and it was
therefore cheering to hear that he thought they were certainly
the second best, if not the best boat on the river; and that they
would be sure to make some bumps unless they had accidents.
"But that's just what I fear so," said Tom. "I'm afraid I shall
make some awful blunder."
"Not you!" said Hardy; "only remember. Don't you fancy you can
pull the boat by yourself, and go to trying to do it. There's
where young oars fail. If you keep thorough good time you'll be
pretty sure to be doing your share of work. Time is everything,
almost."
"I'll be sure to think of that," said Tom; and they entered St.
Ambrose just as the chapel bell was going down; and he went to
chapel and then to hall, sitting by and talking for companionship
while the rest dined.
And so at last the time slipped away, and the Captain and Miller
mustered them at the gates and walked off to the boats. A dozen
other crews were making their way in the same direction, and half
the undergraduates of Oxford streamed along with them. The banks
of the river were crowded; and the punts plied rapidly backwards
and forwards, carrying loads of men over to the Berkshire side.
The university barge, and all the other barges, were decked with
flags, and the band was playing lively airs as the St. Ambrose
crew reached the scene of action.
No time was lost in the dressing-room, and in two minutes they
were all standing in flannel trousers and silk jerseys at the
landing-place.
"You had better keep your jackets on," said the Captain; "we
sha'n't be off yet."
"There goes Brazen-nose."
"They look like work, don't they?"
"The black and yellow seems to slip along so fast. They're no end
of good colors. I wish our new boat was black."
"Hang her colors, if she's only stiff in the back, and don't
dip."
"Well, she didn't dip yesterday; at least, the men on the bank
said so."
"There go Baliol, and Oriel, and University."
"By Jove, we shall be late! Where's Miller?"
"In the shed, getting the boat out. Look, here's Exeter."
The talk of the crew was silenced for the moment as every man
looked eagerly at the Exeter boat. The Captain nodded to Jervis
with a grim smile as they paddled gently by.
Then the talk began again, "How do you think she goes?"
"Not so badly. They're very strong in the middle of the boat."
"Not a bit of it; it's all lumber."
"You'll see. They're better trained than we are. They look as
fine as stars."
"So they ought. They've pulled seven miles to our five for the
last month, I'm sure."
"Then we sha'n't bump them."
"Why not?"
"Don't you know that the value of products consist in the
quantity of labor which goes to produce them? Product pace over
course from Iffley up. Labor expended, Exeter 7; St. Ambrose, 5.
You see it is not in the nature of things that we should bump
them--Q.E.D."
"What moonshine! as if ten miles behind their stroke are worth
two behind Jervis!"
"My dear fellow, it isn't my moonshine; you must settle the
matter with the philosophers. I only apply a universal law to a
particular case."
Tom, unconscious of the pearls of economic lore which were being
poured out for the benefit of the crew, was watching the Exeter
eight as it glided away towards the Cherwell. He thought they
seemed to keep horribly good time.
"Halloa, Drysdale; look, there's Jack going across in one of the
punts."
"Of course it is. You don't suppose he would go down to see the
race."
"Why won't Miller let us start? Almost all the boats are off."
"There's plenty of time. We may just as well be up here as
dawdling about the bank at Iffley."
"We sha'n't go down till the last; Miller never lets us get out
down below."
"Well, come; here's the boat, at last."
The new boat now emerged from its shed, guided steadily to where
they were standing by Miller and the waterman. Then the coxswain
got out and called for bow, who stepped forward.
"Mind how you step now, there are no bottom boards, said Miller.
"Shall I take my jacket?"
"Yes; you had better all go down in jackets in this wind. I've
sent a man down to bring them back. Now two."
"Aye, aye!" said Drysdale, stepping forward. Then came Tom's
turn, and soon the boat was manned.
"Now," said Miller, taking his place, "are all your stretchers
right?"
"I should like a little more grease on my rollocks."
"I'm taking some down; we'll put it on down below. Are you all
right?"
"Yes."
"Then push her off--gently."
The St. Ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were no punts
in the way, or other obstructions; and they swung steadily down
past the university barge, the top of which was already covered
with spectators. Every man in the boat felt as if the eyes of
Europe were on him, and pulled in his very best form. Small
groups of gownsmen were scattered along the bank in Christchurch
meadow, chiefly dons, who were really interested in the races,
but, at that time of day, seldom liked to display enthusiasm
enough to cross the water and go down to the starting-place.
These sombre groups lighted up here and there by the dresses of a
few ladies, who were walking up and down, and watching the boats.
At the mouth of the Cherwell were moored two punts, in which
reclined at their ease some dozen young gentlemen, smoking;
several of these were friends of Drysdale's, and hailed him as
the boat passed.
"What a fool I am to be here!" he grumbled, in an undertone,
casting an envious glance at the punts in their comfortable
berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind. "I say, Brown,
don't you wish we were well past this on the way up?"
"Silence in the bows?" shouted Miller.
"You devil, how I hate you!" growled Drysdale, half in jest and
half in earnest, as they sped along under the willows.
Tom got more comfortable at every stroke, and by the time they
reached the Gut began to hope that he should not have a fit or
lose all his strength just at the start, or cut a crab, or come
to some other unutterable grief, the fear of which had been
haunting him all day.
"Here they are at last!--come along now--keep up with them," said
Hardy to Grey, as the boat neared the Gut; and the two trotted
along downwards, Hardy watching the crew and Grey watching him.
"Hardy, how eager you look!"
"I'd give twenty pounds to be going to pull in the race." Grey
shambled on in silence by the side of his big friend, and wished
he could understand what it was that moved him so.
As the boat shot into the Gut from under the cover of the
Oxfordshire bank, the wind caught the bows.
"Feather high, now," shouted Miller; and then added in a low
voice to the Captain, "It will be ticklish work, starting in this
wind."
"Just as bad for all the other boats," answered the Captain.
"Well said, old philosopher!" said Miller. "It's a comfort to
steer you; you never make a fellow nervous. I wonder if you ever
felt nervous yourself, now?"
"Can't say," said the Captain. "Here's our post; we may as well
turn."
"Easy, bow side--now two and four, pull her round--back water,
seven and five!" shouted the coxswain; and the boat's head swung
round, and two or three strokes took her into the bank.
Jack instantly made a convulsive attempt to board, but was
sternly repulsed, and tumbled backwards into the water.
Hark!--the first gun. The report sent Tom's heart into his mouth
again. Several of the boats pushed off at once into the stream;
and the crowds of men on the bank began to be agitated, as it
were, by the shadow of the coming excitement. The St. Ambrose
crew fingered their oars, put a last dash of grease on their
rollocks, and settled their feet against the stretchers.
"Shall we push her off?" asked "bow."
"No, I can give you another minute," said Miller, who was
sitting, watch in hand, in the stern, "only be smart when I give
the word."
The Captain turned on his seat, and looked up the boat. His face
was quiet, but full of confidence, which seemed to pass from him
into the crew. Tom felt calmer and stronger, he met his eye. "Now
mind, boys, don't quicken," he said, cheerily; "four short
strokes, to get way on her, and then steady. Here, pass up the
lemon."
And he took a sliced lemon out of his pocket, put a small piece
into his own mouth, and then handed it to Blake, who followed his
example, and passed it on. Each man took a piece; and just as
"bow" had secured the end, Miller called out--
"Now, jackets off, and get her head out steadily."
The jackets were thrown on shore, and gathered up by the boatmen
in attendance. The crew poised their oars, No. 2 pushing out her
head, and the Captain doing the same for the stern. Miller took
the starting-rope in his hand.
"How the wind catches her stern," he said; "here, pay out the
rope, one of you. No, not you--some fellow with a strong hand.
Yes, you'll do," he went on, as Hardy stepped down the bank and
took hold of the rope; "let me have it foot by foot as I want it.
Not too quick; make the most of it--that'll do. Two and three dip
your oars in to give her way."
The rope paid out steadily, and the boat settled to her place.
But now the wind rose again, and the stern drifted towards the
bank.
"You _must_ back her a bit, Miller, and keep her a little further
out, or our oars on stroke side will catch the bank."
"So I see; curse the wind. Back her, one stroke all. Back her, I
say!" shouted Miller.
It is no easy matter to get a crew to back her an inch just now,
particularly as there are in her two men who have never rowed a
race before, except in the torpids, and one who has never rowed a
race in his life.
However, back she comes; the starting-rope slackens in Miller's
left hand, and the stroke, unshipping his oar, pushes the stern
gently out again.
There goes the second gun! one short minute more, and we are off.
Short minute, indeed! you wouldn't say so if you were in the
boat, with your heart in your mouth, and trembling all over like
a man with the palsy. Those sixty seconds before the starting gun
in your first race--why, they are a little life-time.
"By Jove, we are drifting in again," said Miller, in horror. The
Captain looked grim, but said nothing; it was too late now for
him to be unshipping again. "Here, catch hold of the long
boat-hook, and fend her off."
Hardy, to whom this was addressed, seized the boat-hook, and,
standing with one foot in the water, pressed the end of the
boat-hook against the gunwale, at the full stretch of his arm,
and so by main force, kept the stern out. There was just room for
stroke oars to dip, and that was all. The starting-rope was as
taut as a harp-string; will Miller's left hand hold out?
[Illustration: 0170]
It is an awful moment. But the coxswain, though almost dragged
backwards off his seat, is equal to the occasion. He holds his
watch in his right hand with the tiller rope.
"Eight seconds more only. Look out for the flash. Remember, all
eyes in the boat."
There it comes, at last--the flash of the starting gun. Long
before the sound of the report can roll up the river, the whole
pent-up life and energy which has been held in leash, as it were,
for the last six minutes, is let loose, and breaks away with a
bound and a dash which he who has felt it will remember for his
life, but the like of which, will he ever feel again? The
starting-ropes drop from the coxswains' hands, the oars flash
into the water, and gleam on the feather, the spray flies from
them, and the boats leap forward.
The crowds on the bank scatter, and rush along, each keeping as
near as it may be to its own boat. Some of the men on the towing
path, some on the very edge of, often in, the water--some
slightly in advance, as if they could help to drag their boat
forward--some behind, where they can see the pulling better--but
all at full speed, in wild excitement, and shouting at the top of
their voices to those on whom the honor of the college is laid.
"Well pulled, all!"
"Pick her up there, five!"
"You're gaining,
every stroke!"
"Time in the bows!"
"Bravo, St. Ambrose!"
On they rushed by the side of the boats, jostling one another,
stumbling, struggling, and panting along.
For a quarter of a mile along the bank the glorious maddening
hurly-burly extends, and rolls up the side of the stream.
For the first ten strokes Tom was in too great fear of making a
mistake to feel or hear or see. His whole soul was glued to the
back of the man before him, his one thought to keep time, and get
his strength into the stroke. But as the crew settled down into
the well known long sweep, what we may call consciousness
returned; and while every muscle in his body was straining, and
his chest heaved, and his heart leapt, every nerve seemed to be
gathering new life, and his senses to wake into unwonted
acuteness. He caught the scent of the wild thyme in the air, and
found room in his brain to wonder how it could have got there, as
he had never seen the plant near the river, or smelt it before.
Though his eye never wandered from the back of Diogenes, he
seemed to see all things at once. The boat behind, which seemed
to be gaining--it was all he could do to prevent himself from
quickening on the stroke as he fancied that--the eager face of
Miller, with his compressed lips, and eyes fixed so earnestly
ahead that Tom could almost feel the glance passing over his
right shoulder; the flying banks and the shouting crowd; see them
with his bodily eyes he could not, but he knew nevertheless that
Grey had been upset and nearly rolled down the bank into the
water in the first hundred yards, that Jack was bounding and
scrambling and barking along by the very edge of the stream;
above all, he was just as well aware as if he had been looking at
it, of a stalwart form in cap and gown, bounding along,
brandishing the long boat-hook, and always keeping just opposite
the boat; and amid all the Babel of voices, and the dash and
pulse of the stroke, and the laboring of his own breathing, he
heard Hardy's voice coming to him again and again, and clear as
if there had been no other sound in the air, "Steady, two!
steady! well pulled! steady, steady!" The voice seemed to give
him strength and keep him to his work. And what work it was! he
had had many a hard pull in the last six weeks, but "never aught
like this."
But it can't last for ever; men's muscles are not steel, or their
lungs bull's hide, and hearts can't go on pumping a hundred miles
an hour without bursting. The St. Ambrose's boat is well away
from the boat behind, there is a great gap between the
accompanying crowds; and now, as they near the Gut, she hangs for
a moment or two in hand, though the roar from the bank grows
louder and louder, and Tom is already aware that the St. Ambrose
crowd is melting into the one ahead of them.
"We must be close to Exeter!" The thought flashes into him, and
it would seem into the rest of the crew at the same moment. For,
all at once, the strain seems taken off their arms again; there
is no more drag; she springs to the stroke as she did at the
start; and Miller's face which had darkened for a few seconds,
lightens up again.
Miller's face and attitude are a study. Coiled up into the
smallest possible space, his chin almost resting on his knees,
his hands close to his sides, firmly but lightly feeling the
rudder, as a good horseman handles the mouth of a free-going
hunter,--if a coxswain could make a bump by his own exertions,
surely he will do it. No sudden jerks of the St. Ambrose rudder
will you see, watch as you will from the bank; the boat never
hangs through fault of his, but easily and gracefully rounds
every point. "You're gaining! you're gaining!" he now and then
mutters to the Captain, who responds with a wink, keeping his
breath for other matters. Isn't he grand, the Captain, as he
comes forward like lightening, stroke after stroke, his back
flat, his teeth set, his whole frame working from the hips with
the regularity of a machine? As the space still narrows, the eyes
of the fiery little coxswain flash with excitement, but he is far
too good a judge to hurry the final effort before victory is safe
in his grasp.
The two crowds mingle now, and no mistake; and the shouts come
all in a heap over the water. "Now, St. Ambrose, six strokes
more."
"Now, Exeter, you're gaining; pick her up."
"Mind the Gut,
Exeter."
"Bravo, St. Ambrose." The water rushes by, still eddying
from the strokes of the boat ahead. Tom fancies now that he can
hear their oars, and the working of their rudder, and the voice
of their coxswain. In another moment both boats are in the Gut,
and a perfect storm of shouts reaches them from the crowd, as it
rushes madly off to the left of the footbridge, amidst which "Oh,
well steered, well steered, St. Ambrose!" is the prevailing cry.
Then Miller, motionless as a statue till now, lifts his right
hand and whirls the tassel round his head; "Give it her now,
boys; six strokes and we are into them." Old Jervis lays down
that great broad back, and lashes his oar through the water with
the might of a giant, the crew caught him up in another stroke,
the tight new boat answers to the spurt, and Tom feels a little
shock behind him, and then a grating sound, as Miller shouts
"Unship oars, bow and three," and the nose of the St. Ambrose
boat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter, till it touches
their stroke oar.
"Take care what you're coming to." It is the coxswain of the
bumped boat who speaks.
Tom, looking round, finds himself within a foot or two of him;
and, being utterly unable to contain his joy, and unwilling to
exhibit it before the eyes of a gallant rival, turns away towards
the shore, and begins telegraphing to Hardy.
"Now then, what are you at there in the bows? Cast her off quick.
Come, look alive! Push across at once out of the way of the other
boats."
"I congratulate you, Jervis," says the Exeter stroke as the St.
Ambrose boat shot past him. "Do it again next race and I sha'n't
care."
"We were within three lengths of Brazen-nose when we bumped,"
says the all-observant Miller in a low voice.
"All right," answers the Captain; "Brazen-nose isn't so strong as
usual. We sha'n't have much trouble there, but a tough job up
above, I take it."
"Brazen-nose was better steered than Exeter."
"They muffed it in the Gut, eh?" said the Captain. "I thought so
by the shouts."
"Yes, we were pressing them a little down below, and their
coxswain kept looking over his shoulder. He was in the Gut before
he knew it, and had to pull his left hand hard or they would have
fouled the Oxfordshire corner. That stopped their way, and in we
went."
"Bravo; and how well we started too."
"Yes, thanks to that Hardy. It was touch and go though; I
couldn't have held that rope two seconds more."
"How did our fellows work; she dragged a good deal below the
Gut."
Miller looked somewhat serious, but even he cannot be finding
fault just now. For the first step is gained, the first victory
won; and, as Homer sometimes nods, so Miller relaxes the
sternness of his rule. The crew, as soon as they have found their
voices again, laugh and talk, and answer the congratulations of
their friends, as the boat slips along close to the towing path
on the Berks side, "easy all," almost keeping pace nevertheless
with the lower boats, which are racing up under the willows on
the Oxfordshire side. Jack, after one or two feints, makes a
frantic bound into the water, and is hauled dripping into the
boat by Drysdale, unchid by Miller, but to the intense disgust of
Diogenes, whose pantaloons and principles are alike outraged by
the proceeding. He--the Cato of the oar--scorns to relax the
strictness of his code even after victory won. Neither word nor
look does he cast to the exhulting St. Ambrosians on the bank; a
twinkle in his eye and a subdued chuckle or two, alone betray
that though an oarsman he is mortal. Already he revolves in his
mind the project of an early walk under a few pea-coats, not
being quite satisfied (conscientious old boy!) that he tried his
stretcher enough in that final spurt, and thinking that there
must be an extra pound of flesh on him somewhere or other which
did the mischief.
"I say, Brown," said Drysdale, "how do you feel?"
"All right," said Tom; "I never felt jollier in my life."
"By Jove, though, it was an awful grind; didn't you wish yourself
well out of it below the Gut?"
"No, nor you either."
"Didn't I? I was awfully baked, my throat is like a limekiln yet.
What did you think about?"
"Well, about keeping time, I think," said Tom, "but I can't
remember much."
"I only kept on by thinking how I hated those devils in the
Exeter boat, and how done up they must be, and hoping their
No. 2 felt like having a fit."
At this moment they came opposite the Cherwell. The leading boat
was just passing the winning-post, off the university barge, and
the band struck up the "Conquering Hero," with a crash. And while
a mighty sound of shouts, murmurs, and music went up into the
evening sky, Miller shook the tiller-ropes again, the Captain
shouted, "Now then, pick her up," and the St. Ambrose boat shot
up between the swarming banks at racing pace to her
landing-place, the lion of the evening.
Dear readers of the gentler sex! you, I know, will pardon the
enthusiasm which stirs our pulses, now in sober middle age, as we
call up again the memories of this the most exciting sport of our
boyhood (for we were but boys then, after all). You will pardon,
though I fear hopelessly unable to understand, the above sketch;
your sons and brothers will tell you it could not have been less
technical.
For you, male readers, who have never handled an oar,--what shall
I say to you? You at least, I hope, in some way--in other
contests of one kind or another--have felt as we felt, and have
striven as we strove. You _ought_ to understand and sympathize
with us in all our boating memories. Oh, how fresh and sweet they
are! Above all, that one of the gay little Henley town, the
carriage-crowded bridge, the noble river reach, the giant
poplars, which mark the critical point of the course--the roaring
column of "undergrads," light blue and dark purple, Cantab and
Oxonian, alike and yet how different,--hurling along together,
and hiding the towing-path--the clang of Henley church-bells--the
cheering, the waving of embroidered handkerchiefs, and glancing
of bright eyes, the ill-concealed pride of fathers, open delight
and exultation of mothers and sisters--the levee in the town-hall
when the race was rowed, the great cup full of champagne (inn
champagne, but we were not critical)--the chops, the steaks, the
bitter beer--but we run into anti-climax--remember, we were boys
then, and bear with us if you cannot sympathize.
And you, old companions, [Greek text] thranitai, benchers, (of
the gallant eight-oar), now seldom met, but never-forgotten,
lairds, squires, soldiers, merchants, lawyers, grave J.P.'s,
graver clergymen, gravest bishops (for of two bishops at least
does our brotherhood boast), I turn for a moment, from my task,
to reach to you the right hand of fellowship from these pages,
and empty the solemn pewter--trophy of hard-won victory--to your
health and happiness.
Surely none the worse Christians and citizens are ye for your
involuntary failing of muscularity!