asked another Guardsman, Sir Vere Bellingham--'Severe,' as he was christened, chiefly because he was the easiest-going giant in existence.

"'Did I! Men came to me; wanted me to join the Eight. Coxswain came, awful strict little fellow, docked his men of all their fun--took plenty himself, though! Coxswain said I must begin to train, do as all his crew did. I threw up my sleeve and showed him my arm;' and the Seraph stretched out an arm magnificent enough for a statue of Milo. 'I said, There, sir, I'll help you thrash Cambridge, if you like, but train I _won't_ for you or for all the University. I've been captain of the Eton Eight; but I didn't keep my crew on tea and toast. I fattened 'em regularly three times a week on venison and champagne at Christopher's.

Very happy to feed yours, too, if you like--game comes down to me every Friday from the Duke's moors; they look uncommonly as if they wanted it!

You should have seen his face! Fatten the Eight! He didn't let me do that, of course; but he was very glad of my oar in his rowlocks, and I helped him beat Cambridge without training an hour myself, except so far as rowing hard went.'

"And the Marquis of Rockingham, made thirsty by the recollection, dipped his fair moustaches into a foaming seltzer.

"'Quite right, Seraph!' said Cecil. 'When a man comes up to the weights, looking like a homonunculus after he's been getting every atom of flesh off him like a jockey, he ought to be struck out for the stakes, to my mind.'"

The obvious inference from this is that if we want to avoid looking like "homonunculi" we must acquire dukes as fathers, and get fattened on venison and champagne.

SMOKING.

There are no smokes in training.

STALENESS.

In the practice of almost every crew there comes a period, generally about half way through training, when they begin to show the effects of hard work by a certain lassitude and loss of vigour. This, in fact, is not genuine staleness, but is the half-way house to perfect condition.

An experienced coach can always detect the signs of it amongst his men.

Their tempers will be short, they will begin to mope about the room, and their general manner will betray languor and listlessness, instead of that brisk cheerfulness that one has a right to expect. Their appetite will decrease, and at meals they will dally with their food instead of consuming it with a hearty zest. If a coach is blind to these signs, and pursues, in spite of them, the scheme of work and diet which he may have laid down at the first, he will probably bring to the post a crew as stale and lifeless as London shrimps. If, however, he grants certain indulgences to those who are most affected; if he lets them lie in bed of a morning, adds a basin of soup to their lunch or dinner, gives them extra liquor, or champagne in place of their ordinary liquor, and eases the work of the crew all round, he will probably find that within three days they will be perfectly brisk and fit again. I remember the case of an Oxford crew which showed the worst symptoms of staleness on a Friday.

Saturday to Monday they spent in Brighton, and returned so reinvigorated, that on the following Wednesday they were able in the race to row Cambridge down at Chiswick and win by a length. For extreme cases of what I call genuine staleness, I do not think there is any remedy except complete rest for a period more or less prolonged. I have seen instances of this at Henley amongst University oarsmen, who had had practically no rest since the previous October.

DISCIPLINE.

Not the least important point in the management of a crew lies in the preservation of strict discipline. While they are in the boat and engaged in rowing, no man, except the captain or the cox, should speak a word, unless he is appealed to by the coach. A wise captain, too, when he has a coach in whom he trusts, will content himself with saying very little indeed. To be constantly cursing his crew, or to be shouting directions to them from the boat, not only irritates the other men, but increases all the difficulties of a coach. To "answer back" a coach is a capital offence, which ought to lead to immediate removal from the crew.

I can only remember one instance of it in all my experience, and that was promptly followed by a humble apology. Silence, prompt obedience, absolute subordination of the individual self to the collective good of the crew, a quick and hearty willingness in endeavouring to carry out orders or instructions, a cheerful temper when things are going awry, and a constant keenness whether in rowing or paddling--these are model qualities which will go far to make a man a valuable oar. Nothing has so bad an effect upon a crew as the display of moroseness or sullenness on the part of one of its members. If that member should chance to be the captain, the baneful effects are increased tenfold. There are times of inattention and slackness when a coach does well to be angry, and to bring his men sharply back to a knowledge of their duty.

THE COACH.

I cannot deal with this subject at any length, for good coaching is a matter of temperament, sympathy, tact, and intelligence--qualities that cannot be taught. The man who has these necessary qualities, and adds to them a wide experience of rowing, can never go very far wrong in coaching a crew. If a man can once establish between himself and his crew that subtle bond which comes of their conviction that their welfare and success are his chiefest desire, and that everything he says is absolutely right, the rest will be comparatively easy. A few simple hints may, however, be given.

(1) Never nag at your crew, or at an individual. Point out his fault; explain to him as clearly as you can how he ought to correct it, and then leave him alone for a bit. Never weary your men with an incessant stream of talk. Periods of complete silence on your part are very valuable, to you and to the crew.

(2) If you see signs of improvement in a man whom you have been correcting, never fail to tell him so. A little encouragement of this kind has more effect than heavy loads of objurgation.

(3) Rebuke any carelessness very sharply, but always keep strong measures, such as taking a crew back to the start, for really serious emergencies.

(4) Show no partiality, and make as little difference as you can between man and man. It is useful to begin by coaching old hands with some severity. New hands are encouraged by feeling that even a Blue or a Grand Challenge winner is liable to error, and that a coach is not afraid to tackle these eminent men.

(5) Make a gallant effort never to lose your temper with an individual, though loss of temper with a crew as a whole need not always be avoided.

When things go wrong in a crew, impress upon each and every man that he is individually responsible for the defects. Every man is probably doing something wrong, and in any case a determined and united attempt to row better can do no harm.

(6) Never tell your men that they are rowing "well," or " better," when these statements are contrary to the truth. The men in the boat can generally feel what is happening as well as you can see it from the bank or the launch, and they are apt to lose confidence in a man who talks smooth things when everything is rough.

(7) Never confuse a man by telling him more than one thing at a time while he is rowing. When the crew has easied you can lecture him and them more at length.

(8) Remember Dr. Warre's rule, that general exhortations, such as "Time," "Beginning," "Smite," "Keep it long," and the like, are to be given at the right moment, not used as mere parrot cries.

(9) Vary the tone of your voice as much as possible.

(10) Vary, if possible, the expressions you use in pointing out and correcting faults.

(11) Always insist on your crew putting on their wraps when they easy after rowing hard.

(12) Never allow men during summer training to stand, sit, or lie about in the full blaze of the sun.

(13) Teach by example as well as by precept. The coach should be able to take his seat in a gig pair, and to show his men practically the style he wishes them to row in, and how their faults may be corrected.

(14) Always remember, while paying attention to the form of individuals, that your main object is to secure uniformity in the crew. Never fail, therefore, to correct faults of time instantly.

CHAPTER VIII.

OF THE RACE-DAY--OF THE RACE--OF THE NECESSITY OF HAVING A BUTT--OF LEISURE TIME--OF AQUATIC AXIOMS.

THE DAY OF THE RACE.

On this tremendous day, towards which all their efforts for weeks past have been directed, the coach will find that all his crew are suffering from that peculiar nervousness to which rowing men have given the name of "the needle." It is a complaint against which no length of experience can harden a man, and the veteran of a hundred races will feel it as acutely as the boy who is engaged in his first struggle. A sort of forced cheerfulness pervades the air. Men make irrelevant remarks about their oars, their stretchers, or the notorious incapacity of their rivals, while they are reading the newspapers or discussing the politics of the day. Even a coach is seized with the universal affection, however gallantly he may strive against it, and endeavour to entertain the crew with all his best stories of triumphant victories, of defeats averted by brilliant spurts, or of the last sayings of some well-known aquatic humourist. Old oars drop in, and for a few moments divert the conversation, only to flow back with it into the one absorbing topic that occupies all men's minds. The feeling goes on increasing until at last, oh joy! the time comes for getting into the boat. With his faithful oar in his hand, and his feet fixed to the stretcher, a man regains his confidence, and when the word is given he will find that the only effect that the needle has had upon him has been to brace his energies to their highest pitch. The duty of a coach on such an occasion is clear. He must try to keep his men cheerful, and prevent them from brooding over the race that is to come. Visits from old oars should be encouraged, for it is often a relief and an amusement to a youngster to find that some solid oar of the past is even more agitated than he is himself. One thing must not be omitted, and that is the preliminary spin, which should take place about two hours before the race, and should consist of two sharp starts of ten strokes each and one hard row of a minute. This has an invaluable effect in clearing the wind. I have always felt, when I have rowed more than one race in a day, and I think my experience will be confirmed by most other oarsmen, that I have been able to row better, harder, and with less distress, in the second race than in the first. An hour and a half before the race a man will be all the better for a biscuit and a hot cup of strong meat soup, with perhaps a dash of brandy to flavour it, but this must depend upon the hour at which the race is rowed, for if you have lunched at one and have to race at half-past three you will want nothing between times to stay your stomach. The early morning sprint should be taken as usual.

[Illustration: HENLEY REGATTA, 1897.

(_New College_ v. _Leander_. _Won by New College by 2ft._)]

THE RACE.

"I shall say, 'Are you ready?' once; if I receive no answer, I shall say, 'Go!'" It is the voice of the umpire addressing us from the steam-launch in which he will follow the race. He must be a man dead to all feeling, incapable of sympathy, for he actually turns to one of his fellow-passengers and makes a jesting remark, while our hearts are palpitating and our minds are strung up to face the stern actualities of the race. The other crew look very big and strong, and fit and determined. We shall have to row our hardest, and we all know it. "Get the top of your shorts properly tucked in," says our captain, "so as not to catch your thumbs; and mind, all of you, eyes in the boat, and when cox shouts for ten strokes let her have it. Come forward all."

"Touch her gently, bow" (it is the cox who speaks, and his voice sounds thin and far away and dream-like). "One more. That'll do. Easy, bow. Now we're straight."

"Are you ready?" from the umpire. Great heaven! will he never say----"Go!" he shouts. There is a swish, a leap, a strain, a rattle of oars, a sense of something moving very swiftly alongside, a turmoil of water, a confused roar from the bank: we are off!

We started splendidly. For half a minute I am a mere machine; thoughts, feelings, energies--all are concentrated into one desire to work my hardest and to keep in time. Then my mind clears, and I become conscious once more of myself and my surroundings. Have we gained? I _must_ steal a look. By Jupiter, they're leaving us! "Eyes in the boat, four,"

screams the cox; "you're late!" Be hanged to cox! he's got eyes like a lynx. Yes; there's no doubt of it--I can see, without looking out of the boat, out of the corner of my eye. They're gaining still. Now their stroke is level with me; now he has disappeared, and for a few strokes I am conscious of a little demon cox bobbing and screeching alongside of me. Then he, too, draws away, and their rudder is all I can see. At last that also vanishes, and a sense of desolation descends on us. Nearly two minutes must have gone; I know that by the landmarks we have passed.

Surely we ought to spurt. What can stroke be up to? Is he going to let us be beaten without an effort. Ugh! what a shower-bath that was. It's six splashing, as usual. Well, if we're beaten, we must just grin and bear it. We shall have to congratulate the other ruffians. Hateful!

Somebody must get beaten. But we're not beaten yet, hang it all! Three minutes. What's this? Cox is shouting. "Now, ten hard strokes together; swing out, and use your legs!" He counts them out for us at the top of his voice. Grand! We're simply flying. That's something like it. And I'm not a bit done yet. We're none of us done. The boat's going like smoke. "Nine!" yells the cox. "Ten! Now, don't slack off, but keep her going. You're gaining, you're gaining! On to it, all of you." He is purple in the face, and foaming at the mouth. Glorious! Their rudder comes back to me; I see their cox. We _are_ catching them. Now for it! A few strokes more and the boats are running dead level, and so they continue for half a minute. Stroke has now, however, taken the measure of his foes. We are steadying down and swinging longer, and I am conscious that the other crew are rowing a faster stroke. It is now our turn to leave them. Foot by foot we creep past them; their bows come level with me, and then slowly recede. I can see the back of their bowman. His zephyr has come out from his shorts; the back of his neck is very pale. There can't be more than two minutes left now, and I'm still fit, and my wind is all right. We are winning; I'm sure of it. No; they're spurting again, and, by Jove! they're gaining! Spurt, stroke, spurt! We mustn't get beaten on the post. But stroke, that wary old warrior, knows what he is about. Unmistakable signs prove to him that this effort is the last desperate rally of his enemies. He sees their boat lurch; their time is becoming erratic; two of them are rolling about in evident distress. His own crew he has well in hand; we are rowing as one man, and he feels that he has only to give a sign, and our restrained eagerness will blaze forth and carry us gloriously past the post. Let us wait, he seems to say, a very few seconds more, until the opposing spurt fades out to its inevitable end; so he rows on imperturbably. But isn't he running it too fine? Not he. He gives a quick word to cox, rattles his hands away, and swings as if he meant to strike his face against the kelson of the boat. "Pick her up all!"

screams the cox. "Now then!" comes in a muffled gasp from the captain.

We feel that our moment has come, and, with a unanimous impulse, we take up the spurt and spin the ship along. In a flash we leap ahead; we leave the other crew as if it was standing still. We are a length ahead; now we are clear; half a length of open water divides us from them. To all intents and purposes the race is over. The crowd grows thicker; the shouts from the bank become a deafening din. Enthusiasts scream futile encouragements to pursuer and pursued, and in another moment the flag is down, the cox cries, "Easy all!" and with triumph in our hearts we realize that we have won. The captain turns round to us--he is rowing No. 7--his face glowing with pleasure. "Well rowed indeed, you men!" he pants. "You all did thundering well! And as for you, stroke----" but words fail him, and all he can do is to clap his delighted stroke on the back. Then, having duly exchanged the customary "Well rowed!" and its accompanying rattle of oars in rowlocks with our gallant enemy, we paddle home to the raft, where our exultant coach and our perspiring partisans receive us with hand-shakings and embraces and fervently epitomized stories of the struggle. "I knew you had got 'em all the way!" says the coach. "Did you hear me shout when you got to the half-way point?" "Hear you shout?" we reply in a chorus of joyful assent. "Of course we did. That's why we spurted." Of course, we had heard nothing; but at this moment we almost think we did hear him plainly, and in any case we are not going to be so churlish as to detract from anybody's joy over our victory.

And so the struggle is ended, and we have won. Pleasant though it is to know that training is over, there is not one of us who does not feel a sense of sorrow as he realizes that these days of toil and hardship and self-restraint, of glorious health and vigorous effort are past. All the little worries under which we chafed, the discipline that at times was irksome, the thirst, the fatigue, the exhaustion, the recurrent disappointments--all these become part of a delightful memory. Never again, it may be, shall these eight men strike the sounding furrows together. The victory that has crowned us with honour has at the same time broken up our companionship of labour and endurance; but its splendid memory, and the friendships it knit together--these remain with us, and are a part of our lives henceforth wherever we may be.