CHAPTER XXIII.

HARVARD AGAINST OXFORD.

SELDOM--perhaps not twice in a hundred years, had such a night of excitement been known in London as that which ushered in the morning of the Twenty-Seventh of August, 1869, the ever-memorable day on which a million of half-crazy people were to witness the Great University Boat Race between Oxford and Harvard. This race, it was universally declared, would forever settle the mooted question of British pluck and American endurance, by twenty-five minutes hard pulling in two four-oared boats on the River Thames, between Putney and Mortlake.

The boasted phlegm of the English race had, as it were, disappeared before the touchstone of national rivalry, and prince, peer, peasant, and cabman alike felt that the honor of England was in the hands of Mr. Darbishire's Oxford crew.

For weeks before the race came off, the London shopkeepers, mercers, haberdashers, and drapers, had illuminated windows and doorways with neck-ties, scarfs, shoe-buckles, ribbons, silks, and hosiery, and with the greatest commercial impartiality, these articles that I have named, with a hundred others that I cannot recollect, had been made to assume the modest hues of the Oxford Dark Blue, and the blazing brilliancy of the Harvard Magenta. The merits of the men of both Universities had undergone the severest mental and conversational scrutiny in every part of the metropolis.

[Sidenote: POLICE ARRANGEMENTS.]

In a great city with a population of over three millions of Englishmen, it was but natural and just that Oxford should hold high ascendancy, and that Oxford favors should be worn almost exclusively, and that the superiority of Oxford rowing, should be with high and low a question of orthodoxy. Night settled down on the myriad roofs and church steeples of London, and ten young lads, down at the little village of Putney, with its narrow streets and old-fashioned church, braced themselves, before going to sleep, for the greatest athletic conflict that the Nineteenth century has known.

The sun broke over the London housetops on that eventful Friday morning, the Twenty-Seventh of August, with unusual brilliancy for an English sun. The weather had not been of the most promising kind for some days previous, and it was feared that the day might turn out a foggy or a rainy nuisance, and thus interfere with the pleasure which so many countless thousands had promised themselves in witnessing the race. London was astir at an early hour, and great crowds filled the streets in the direction of the railroad stations on the Surrey side of the river, and in the vicinity of the numerous steamboat wharves, for the purpose of securing an early transportation to the scene of the conflict.

At 9 o'clock the stations of the Northwestern, the Metropolitan, and the London and Northwestern Railways--at Waterloo, Vauxhall, Clapham Junction, Wadsworth, Putney, Ludgate Hill, London and Blackfriars Bridges, Euston, Chalk Farm, Hammersmith, Paddington, and Westminster--were swarming with masses of men, women, and children, vainly endeavoring, struggling, pushing, and trying to obtain precedence of each other, in order to get tickets to be carried to the boat race. The different railway companies of London, in order to accommodate the tremendous number of spectators, had suspended their regular traffic and agreed to run excursion trains all day steadily until an hour before the race.

The Thames Conservancy Board, which has the power to clear the river and prevent obstructions from delaying the race, had worked manfully, and by great exertions had succeeded in making every steamboat captain and owner on the river know that he would be compelled by force to remain above Putney Bridge, where the race was to begin, on penalty of £20 fine; and if rash enough to run the risk of fine, the police were to seize the offending steamer and quench her fires, and thus prevent further locomotion.

One steamboat speculator had been selling tickets at two guineas a head for the steamer Venus, and had declared openly that he would pay the fine of £20 and run the boat anyhow, despite the authorities of the river and the police who swarmed, in hundreds of small boats and tiny steam launches, all over the broad surface of the Thames.

When the steamer Venus came down to Putney Bridge, however, she was stopped very quickly, and her cheated passengers were forced to remain on board and witness the start, but the steamer was fastened at anchor and could no farther go. Passengers by this unlucky boat, who were unable to stand the broiling sun for four or five hours, debarked at Putney, and consoled themselves with mutton chops and bitter beer at the Star and Garter. Formerly, at the University races between Oxford and Cambridge, there was not only danger that the race itself would be interrupted, or perhaps lost, by the reckless rushing to and fro of the innumerable steamers that were sure to follow the progress of the boats towards Mortlake, but it was also very unsafe for passengers in small boats, wherries, or launches, to venture on the river, owing to the manner in which the steamers dashed to and fro at the bidding of the eager captains.

But the assertions in some of the American newspapers, that the Harvard crew would meet with foul-play from some scoundrel or other who might employ money to influence a master of one of those vessels, had aroused a determined energy among the members of the Thames Conservancy Board, and the result was a clear river, in one sense, from Putney to Mortlake, for the two crews.

When I say in one sense, I mean that the channel of the river was kept clear of steamboats and skiffs alike; but, while the steamers were not allowed inside of the chains stretched across at Putney and Mortlake, thousands of every description of small craft lined the river for a space of five miles on both sides, on the Surrey and Middlesex shores,--but out of the path where the race-boats were to make the essay for superiority.

[Sidenote: THOMAS HUGHES, M.P.]

But two steamboats were allowed to follow the crews, and one of these was the steamer Lotus, engaged to carry the referee, Mr. Thomas Hughes, M.P., author of "Tom Brown at Oxford," "School Days at Rugby," and other well-known and popular books--Besides the umpire for each crew, the judge of the race, Sir Aubrey Paul, and a number of ladies and gentlemen specially invited. Besides this boat there was also the steamboat Sunflower, chartered for the use of the press of London and for the benefit of American correspondents in London, by one of the editors of _Bell's Life_. These two boats were never more than fifty yards to the rear of the Oxford and Harvard shells during the progress of the race.

At half past 1 o'clock the press boat had been advertised to leave the Temple Pier for the scene of the race. Taking a cab at the head of Regent street, I had a good opportunity to observe the streets and shops and numerous vehicles. Of the six or seven thousand cabs which are to be found at the different stands all over London, hardly one this morning but is in some way decorated for the festival. These sharp-eyed, cunning-looking cabbies, in their careless attire, each with a brass medal depending from his breast, giving his number and license, have an eye to the main chance. Their long whips are tipped with short bows of blue ribbon in the greater number, while a few have magenta ties. Out of respect for the Yankees, they will charge them to-day a shilling a head more than they dare ask from an Englishman.

The great clumsy busses, that look more like advertising vans than vehicles for the purpose of carrying passengers, are splendid this day with decoration. They are made, as the sign above each tells you, to carry twelve inside and sixteen outside. The drivers of the busses have a more respectable look and are more profound in their wit than the cabbies. They have a solid British look that tells plainly of roast beef and careful usage. The cabbies are to the buss drivers a sort of gypsies, and are looked upon by them with suspicion. Every omnibus is crowded with passengers this cheerful, sunny day.

All London seems going to the race. Dry goods clerks, licensed victualers, "cads," grocers, public-house keepers, bar-boys, stable-boys, bar-maids, servant-maids, well-to-do tradesmen and their wives and children, apothecaries' assistants, golden-haired milliners nicely gloved, dressmakers' apprentices, pickpockets, peers of the United Kingdom, University men in cap and gown, Charter House boys with yellow stockings on their legs, and dark-blue frocks fastened at their waists with leather straps, wandering Americans displaying large diamonds and shocking bad hats, Westminster schoolboys on the foundation of Elizabeth, the Dean of St. Paul's in his shovel hat, city men, brokers and bankers, watermen from the Thames, professional oarsmen, Jew and Gentile;--they are all interested and will all see the race or a part of it.

I never saw anything like this great crowd before. It is believed that two hundred and fifty thousand people is the average number that are in the habit of witnessing a Cambridge and Oxford boat-race, but Cambridge has been beaten so often that the interest does not compare at one of these races with the tumultuous, all-pervading feeling that is borne in every man's bosom as he hurries along to-day. It is not so very certain that Harvard will be beaten, although it is rumored here and there that Loring, the stroke of the crew, is unwell, which rumor only tends to increase the odds on Oxford.

The Temple Pier is reached at last. We pass through an arched gateway at the bottom of a narrow street opening on the Thames. This spot is more historic even than Westminster Abbey. There before us is the Church of the Temple, seven hundred years old and black with time. All the ground around us belonged, in the old bygone days, to the Knights of the Order of the Temple. Now the place is the resort of attorneys and barristers, and in it legal people have chambers. Right in the shadows of the old Norman towers and battlements of the ancient church, Jack Cade's followers rose from a swinish, drunken sleep to turn their weapons against each other, hundreds falling in the conflict.

[Sidenote: DARK BLUE AND MAGENTA.]

Here in these chambers resided Chaucer, Gower, Spenser, Clarendon, Coke, Plowden, Selden, Beaumont, Congreve, Wycherley, Edmund Burke, Cowper, Samuel Johnson, Oliver Goldsmith, Pope, Eldon, Erskine, and others equally famous. Here they slept, joked, read, ate, and drank. Surely, if this ground be not hallowed, none other is. In company with a well-known American journalist, Mr. George Wilkes, I find my way to the Press boat, which is lying at the foot of the Temple Pier, off the Embankment. She is a long, double-ender, with a red streak on the upper part of her keel, and a black hull. Her steam funnel is made to be lowered at the base, working on hinges, when going under a bridge. Like all Thames boats to-day, there are two flags hoisted on her twin flag-staffs--the American and English. There is no awning, no upper-deck, to shade us from the August sun, which is now beginning to burn with an intensity peculiarly un-English.

There are, perhaps, about fifty persons on the boat, of whom two-thirds are English; the remainder Americans. They are not all newspaper men, though it was understood, before the tickets were sold, that none but newspaper men would be allowed on board.

The Englishmen wear blue scarfs and bows; the Americans sport the magenta all over their clothes. The sun falls on the broad, muddy river in slanting beams of kindling gold, making the old warehouses on both banks of the stream, with their yellow brick gables, to stand out in bold relief.

Above us is London Bridge, lowering in its immensity, and to the right is Billingsgate Market and Paul's wharf. Close upon our stern is Blackfriars Bridge, the Temple Gardens, Kings College--a massive, dirty gray structure, running along the river bank; Somerset House, the government building where all the clerical work of the administration is done, and where well-fed and well-paid clerks enjoy sinecures of the kind which the Barnacle family were so fond of. Before us is Waterloo Bridge, Cecil, Duke, Salisbury, Surrey, Buckingham, Villiers, and other streets called after the mansions once inhabited by the favorites of Charles, James, and William of Blessed Memory.

At a little before two o'clock the Sunflower steams off on her journey up the river. The course of the steamer is impeded at almost every foot by small craft of all descriptions, en route to Putney and the race.

We pass, on our way down, Waterloo Bridge, Charing Cross Bridge, with its huge railroad trains thundering over our heads, bound to Dover, with passengers for the Continent; Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament, with their gilt vanes, towers, and battlements glistening in the sun; Lambeth Bridge and Lambeth Palace, the residence of the Primate of England, with its gardens and red brick towers; St. Thomas Hospitals, in process of construction; Millbank Penitentiary, a gloomy, six-sided fortress of crime; Vauxhall Bridge; Pimlico Pier, where we stop a moment; the Nine Elms Road, Chelsea Bridge, and Chelsea Hospital, where a number of frisky, one-legged and one-armed veterans are disporting themselves on its smooth, grassy lawn; the Botanic Garden on the right, and the green fields and trees and silvery lake of Battersea Park on the left; Albert Bridge, Cadogan Pier, Chelsea Pier, Battersea Bridge, and the Cremorne Gardens, with its kiosks, captive balloon, statues, shady walks, fountains, and flower beds; and now we are opposite Fulham and Brompton, where the splendid and extravagant Formosas of the metropolis enjoy their ill-gotten gains in pleasant villas and cozy little houses.

We are now getting away from the thickly populated districts of London, and the bridges that cross the river are fewer and farther between, and, being generally of wood, are more rickety.

During the entire passage we are continually stopped by small craft of all kinds. The river is alive with them.

[Sidenote: ON THE TOWING PATH.]

There are huge yawls, of broad bottom and clumsy construction, containing family parties, with their provender--bread, cheese, and beer, ham pies, and beef pies, kidneys and tongues--spread out in the bottom of the boats on white cloths or in open baskets; there are long shells with crews of eight and four, carrying coxswains; single sculls, double sculls, wherries, watermen's boats, small steam launches, lighters, watermen's barges, small sloops and schooners with dirty sails and unseemly rudders, pleasure yachts, and craft of such queer shape and rig as are never seen on our American rivers.

All are bent on pleasure, and in many of the boats they are singing the slang songs of the London streets; and now and then are warbled the cheering chants of the boatmen immortalized by Dibdin and Taylor, the water poets. A couple of miles more and we are in sight of Putney Bridge, which towers aloft, rickety, worn, and decayed, thousands crossing to and fro on its frail planks to get positions for the race.

And now the full grandeur of a sight such as is seldom or ever seen bursts upon every one on board the Press boat, and even the Londoners admit, in an easy way, that the Derby Day is eclipsed by the great number of people who line the banks of the river for miles on the Surrey and Middlesex shores.

To the left, above the old bridge, is the village of Putney, with its narrow streets and noisome lanes, its green fields, festering pools, eccentric-looking mansions and houses of an humbler kind, the steeples of St. John's and St. Mary's, with their quaint clock-towers; and to the left, on the Middlesex bank, are Fulham and the Bishop of London's palace, the long grass on the Bishop's lawn waving in the breeze, and upon whose surface were stretched pic-nickers eating and drinking.

The Star and Garter at Putney, a famous hostelry, where the crew of Harvard had lodged when they first came to England, was covered all over its surface toward the river with the flags of America and England. The old wooden balconies were crowded with ladies wearing favors in their bosoms; the passages and lanes leading to the towing-path on the river swarmed with foot passengers, all having one determination and one sole object. The "Bell Inn," a rival to the Star and Garter, was also glorious with colors, and all the house-owners for miles along the river had let their windows and seats on their roofs for various sums, varying from five shillings to five guineas per head.

One generous American "lady" had advertised in the _Times_ that she would let seats in her windows to her countrymen at the modest price of two guineas per head, and she found that she had not half room enough for her compatriots. An innkeeper on the towing-path had let the front of his house for £40 to a speculator, who realized a profit of £25 on the venture. The Leander Boat-house, belonging to a well-known boating club, had a scaffolding erected fronting the river for the members and their ladies, which was covered with Union Jack bunting, the structure being the place where the Oxford crew had housed their race-boat.

Close to it was the boat-house of the London Rowing Club, an association of four hundred gentlemen, who had proved themselves warm and steady friends of the Harvard crew since their arrival here. The Harvard boat was housed here, and the staging and platform were decorated with American colors. A number of ladies, wearing red rosettes, were seated upon this balcony.

A few yards below was the modest stone house where the Harvard crew were sleeping two hours before the race. This place was enclosed by a stone wall, breast high, and shaded by green trees. Platforms were erected behind this wall, and on them I noticed seated the American Minister, Mr. Motley, the Hon. S.S. Cox, "Tom Hughes," Charles Reade, the novelist--a bluff-looking, hearty Englishman, in gray clothes--and a number of ladies, just before the race began.

[Sidenote: A FRIGHTFUL JAM.]

Back from this house ran the High street, and, I believe, the only street of Putney, and in this street was located the unpretending place of residence of the Oxford men. The towing-path on the Surrey side of the river runs along for miles away beyond Mortlake, and on the Middlesex bank there is also a path, and on both of these paths it is customary on a race day for thousands of harmless maniacs to run along, hats and coats in hand, vainly endeavoring to keep up with race-boats going at a speed greater than a mile every five minutes.

Of course, they soon lose sight of the boats after the start; yet they will still run, hallooing, cheering, and shouting like madmen. To furnish sport and amusement for the myriads of Cockneys who come by rail, steamboat, or on foot, from London and its environs, there are not wanting sharpers, players, peddlers, fighting-men, showmen, venders of all kinds of fruit, vegetables, meats, pies, drinks, ices, and all kinds of knick-knacks--things useful and useless; and these people and their wares combined make up a kind of a Bartholomew's fair on a grand scale.

The fair and its accessories covered the towing-path for three miles, and rendered the passage most difficult on this occasion for the many pedestrians. Dresses were torn, buttons pulled off, hats smashed, bonnets rumpled, hoops irretrievably wrecked, children trod on, women half suffocated and rendered faint and sick; yet, back from the river, for fifty or sixty feet, for a distance of three miles, the uproar and sale of questionable merchandise and doubtful provender never ceased for an instant.

It was a scene such as is displayed once in a man's life-time, to remain indelibly engraved on his mind ever after. One thousand policemen lined both banks of the river to keep order, but most of them were on the Surrey, or most thronged bank of the stream. A large number of those were mounted on huge black horses, and but for them many lives would have been lost on this most eventful day of days.

At the boat-houses, where the shells of the rival crews were concealed from the gaze of the crowds, outside, the jam was frightful, and very dangerous, as the police every few moments had to back their horses into the crowd to keep a passage-way clear, and on several occasions were compelled to charge the dense masses of men, women, and children.

Some time before the race came off, I made my way along the towing-path as well as I could through the swaying, surging crowds, for the purpose of taking a look at the amusements they were enjoying.

There was a large crowd around a man who stood before a circular table, the top of which revolved on a pivot. The surface was painted and divided into four triangles by colored lines. In each angle was painted the name of some famous horse, such as "Formosa," "Pretender," "Blue Gown," and "Lady Elizabeth." An indicator, like the hand of an eight-day clock, swung on a pivot in the centre of the circle.

A spectator being invited to place sixpence on the name of some favorite horse, the proprietor of the show gave the circular board a spin, and if the indicator stopped opposite the name of the horse where he had placed his money, he gained a shilling. The fellow who had this machine in operation was a hard-looking case, in a greasy cutaway velvet coat. His oratory was to the point and business-like.

"Down vith yer sixpence; and make yer bets, gentlemen. My hindicator is sure as the clock of St. Paul's and twice as waluable ha hacquisition. I don't care vether it is Formosy or Purtendir that yer bets yer bob hon. Yer take Hoxford or ye take 'Avard--

Hi gives 'er a spin Han lets yer vin;

vich is poetry, and if ye dosn't vin, I gits the tin; vich is po-e-try agin, and is halso a favrite hexpression of the Chanselur of the Hexcheckever ven he piles hon the blessed taxis has 'as made me sell hall my property to havoid a bust hup. Try yer luck agin; thank ye sir. Formosy, sir, sure to vin or lose."

Close by this amusing blackguard is the stand of the root-beer, ginger-beer, and bitter-beer seller, who is crying out from behind his little cart:

[Sidenote: BOOTHS AND SHOWS.]

"Valk hup and try this ere de-lee-shus bewerage, honly tuppence a bottle. If ye don't like it I gives ye yer money back, and no 'arm done. The Prinse of Vales alvays buys 'is beer hof me ven 'e isnt travelin, for the good of 'is 'ealth. Valk hup and don't be ashamed; the no-bil-e-tee and gen-te-ree hall patronizes me. Ginger-beer, ginger-beer, and may the best man win, as my vife says, ven she sees two pickpockets a fightin' for a shillin'."

"Trick-hat-the-loop, ring the nail, and ye gets three h'apens. Ring the nail and ye gets three h'apens. And 'ow much does ye hinvest. Vy honly ha'apenny. A man von two hundred pun hof me last veek, and there 'e his just now agoin to bet hit all on the Hoxford crew, and ef ye don't believe me just hax 'im 'isself," said a seedy looking wretch, with a handful of small iron rings in his hand, directing his index finger to some indistinct personage in the crowd, whom no one present could recognize.

The number of apple, pear, goosberry, plum, pie, and ice-cream stands that line the path are almost incalculable to think of. Pies square, round, and triangular of shape, in all the varied stages of decay, are for sale at a penny a piece. Tarts, cheese cakes, mutton pot-pies, ham pies, suet puddings, whelks, a sort of odorous shell-fish, at half-penny apiece, green gages, and "sandviches" are shouted on every side of us.

There are all kinds of games in progress. There is the ancient and honorable game of "cockshie," and "cocoa-nut." The latter is curious. Three cocoa-nuts, hollowed out, are placed on the top of as many sticks, which are stuck upright in the ground, and the game, costing a penny, is to knock off those cocoa-nuts at three strokes, when you can claim three pence--providing, of course, that you knock off all three cocoa-nuts; which, of course, can only be done by the princely proprietor himself after hard training.

There is one noisy fellow on a little hillock, pockmarked and ferret-eyed, in a greasy woolen duster, who has drawn a large crowd around him by his peculiar and quack-like oratory. This fellow is a gem, in his way, of purest ray serene. He is a merchant of penny scarf and finger rings.

"Now," says he, elevating a scarf ring on one finger and a wedding ring on another, in sight of the wondering crowd, "hif hi was to tell you good people that these beuty-_fool_ rings wor pure goold, vot vould you say? Vy, you vould say, in the most hexitibel and hunmistakabel langvidge has could come from your blessed traps, 'ee his a harrant himposter.

"Could hi blame yer for hexpressing yer feelinks in sich langvidge? No. Hi vould say to my disturbed conscience, has was at that very moment a tearing my hinsides to pieces, 'you, Villiam Bowsley, have forsaken the good karraktir has was 'anded down to yer by hancestors who 'ad their hown hestates, 'osses, and kerridges; Villiam Bowsley, you 'ave been han harrant himpostor, and deserves to be 'ung.' Vell, does I tell ye that these ere rings is goold? No; on the contreery, I says they are brass. Vell, may be ye don't care so much for brass harticles. Ham hi a friend of brass? No, agin. But I ham a friend of Hart. I asks ye to look at this ere image of Mr. Glads_tun_, as is now hour blessed Pri-_meer_. Wos hever anything so beau-ty-fool? Look at the insinivatin smile on 'is sveet feetyures. Ven I last dined vith Mr. Glads_tun_--ye needn't laff, cos ye knows, perhaps, the story in the Good Book of the bad children 'oo chaffed the old Profits and wus heat hup by bares--ven I last dined vith Glads_tun_, hour blessed Pri-_meer_, he says, 'Bill'--he calls me 'Bill' ven 'ee his friendly--'Bill, them pictures on them ere kam-e-o-s as you sells is my likeness just like twins. Cos, vy,' said he, 'my maiden haunt reckignized them, and fainted avay ven she seed vun.'"

Passing along a few feet I am attracted by the noise of a loud, rough voice, that is shouting over the thickly packed heads of another crowd:

"Step hup gentlemen and take a look hat the noble hart of Self-Defence has his practised in the Royal Tent. This vay gentlemen, honly tuppens. Brisket Bill and the 'Ackney Vick Cove is a goin' to set-too. Step hup."

[Sidenote: THE BOXING TENT.]

There is a large tent back from the path covered all over with representations of half-naked boxers in the act of defending themselves, or mauling or beating each other to pieces, and the master pugilist stands on a high bench to attract the crowd, while at the same time he can look inside of the tent and direct the ceremonies by calling time and announcing the names of the combatants. Two wretched, miserable looking women, their features furrowed with want, their eyes bleared with gin, and their general appearance indicative of hard luck, cruel treatment and filth, hold each a sheet of the tent in their hands, and one of them puts out her hand to take the two pence which is the price of admission.

I pass in to the tent and find twenty or thirty hard-looking cases circling around "Brisket Bill" and the "Hackney Wick Cove," who are stripped to their waists, their features inflamed with passion, their hair cropped short, and boxing gloves on their hands. There are half a dozen burly, big soldiers in the tent belonging to different arms of the Queen's service, and two of them wear the red shell jackets and army fatigue caps of the Life Guards. Brisket Bill is a low-sized, compact, thick witted brute in corduroys and heavy hob-nailed shoes, who has been probably "starring" in the provinces, and the Hackney Cove is a tall, well-made, fresh-faced-looking young fellow, who is quite lively on his feet, and seems to rather like the punishment which Brisket gives him every now and then in the chest and face.

A ruffianly-faced scoundrel offers me a ticket to go to his boxing benefit on the next Monday night, which is declined, and at the next moment the Hackney Cove knocks Brisket Bill, with a tremendous blow, kicking at my feet, while cheers greet the feat from the Life Guards, roughs, thieves, and clodhoppers in the tent, and the Master Pugilist cries from the top of the tent outside:

"Vind hup, Brisket; 'it 'im 'ard and be done vith your larking. Give these gentlemen the vorth of their tupence. Vind hup, I say, and stop 'im."

Going down the towing path I found the crowd increasing every moment, and all streaming from the direction of London. A great number of soldiers were present all in bright uniform, without side-arms, and all carrying jaunty canes--lancers, foot guards, riflemen, artillery drivers, men of the siege train, heavy cavalry, dragoons, and light-infantry men. The majority of these warriors bold were accompanied by their sweethearts, pretty, clear-skinned English girls in their best bibs and tuckers, and of course they all wore the Oxford blue on their persons. Hundreds of small dirty-faced and ragged boys swarmed in and out of the numerous tents, and many grown men were endeavoring by bawling loudly, to dispose of badges and rosettes. Some of them had pieces of wide dark blue ribbon with the words cribbed from the famous ballad of Tommy Dodd a little altered, inscribed in gilt type on them:

"Now boys, let's all go in; Oxford--Oxford sure to win, Tommy Dodd."

Others sold small rosettes with the words "Oxford Laurels" engraved, and Harvard badges made of red, white, and blue lutestring, bearing the arms of the United States, the eagle rampant, and screaming fiercely, while one costermonger's cart had elevated on canvas in bold letters, the words of Nelson at Trafalgar, forever classic in the English tongue:

"ENGLAND EXPECTS THIS DAY THAT EVERY MAN SHALL DO HIS DUTY."

Almost every person who passed this costermonger cart cheered or approved of the legend in some way, while as a counter irritant a party of Americans who had hired a whole house, had the Star Spangled Banner displayed with the following couplet underneath, in glaring type, and which attracted very considerable attention:

"Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: In God be our trust!"

I saw numbers of Americans, during the great excitement of that memorable day, pass and repass the sacred symbol of their country just for the sake of lifting their hats to the dear old flag. Blood _is_ thicker than water--even if it was only a boat race. One young fellow who had been for four years studying his profession at Halle, in Germany, and had not seen the Gridiron during that time, doffed his hat twice and was cheered from the balcony in return; and when he came to me and spoke, his eyelashes were humid, and, when I asked him what was the matter, he answered in a polyglot of Deutsch and English:

[Sidenote: THE DEAR OLD FLAG.]

"Ach Gott! I've been having a blamed good cry at the sight of the Stars and Stripes."

And thus the day passed, and the sun declined in force and fell in strips of silver and gold and purple on Putney church and steeple, and on all that mad, roaring, shouting, gambling, eating, and drinking multitude, that lined both banks of the river from Putney to Mortlake--a million human beings in all--to witness ten lads struggle for less than half an hour in two frail boats.