of these boats, and I do not wish to renew the experience. I cannot
conceive why and in what moment of feeble good-nature or misapplied
patriotism I ever consented to lend a hand. I was not a good oar,
and did not become a better one; I had no illusions about my
performance, and any momentary complacency was generally sternly
dispelled by the harsh criticism of the coach on the bank, when we
rested for a moment to receive our meed of praise or blame. But
though I have no sort of wish to repeat the process, to renew the
slavery which I found frankly and consistently intolerable, I find
myself looking on at the cheerful scene with an amusement in which
mingles a shadow of pain, because I feel that I have parted with
something, a certain buoyancy and elasticity of body, and perhaps
spirit, of which I was not conscious at the time, but which I now
realize that I must have possessed. It is with an admiration
mingled with envy that I see these youthful, shapely figures, bare-
necked and bare-kneed, swinging rhythmically past. I watch a brisk
crew lift a boat out of the water by a boat-house; half of them
duck underneath to get hold of the other side, and they march up
the grating gravel in a solemn procession. I see a pair of cheerful
young men, released from tubbing, execute a wild and inconsequent
dance upon the water's edge; I see a solemn conference of deep
import between a stroke and a coach. I see a neat, clean-limbed
young man go airily up to a well-earned tea, without, I hope, a
care, or an anxiety in his mind, expecting and intending to spend
an agreeable evening. "Oh, Jones of Trinity, oh, Smith of Queen's,"
I think to myself, "tua si bona noris! Make the best of the good
time, my boy, before you go off to the office, or the fourth-form
room, or the country parish! Live virtuously, make honest friends,
read the good old books, lay up a store of kindly recollections, of
firelit rooms in venerable courts, of pleasant talks, of innocent