REMINISCENCES OF HENLEY REGATTA.

BY AN OXFORD MAN.

I HAVE made it a rule never to allow public events, whatever their magnitude or moment, to interfere with my private amusements; and so, though I have no doubt that, to use the regular rhetorical phrase, "we are slumbering on the brink of a volcano," I was not deterred by the Russian ultimatum from enjoying myself during Ascot week. It is scarcely possible to realize the prospect of war, in such fine weather as this, unless it be the mimic hostilities on the plains of Chobham. On a warm June day, with excursion trains (on which accidents are no longer of daily occurrence) tempting one from metropolitan duties to every kind of ruralizing, it is difficult to feel that excitement which should stir all well-regulated minds, on the ultimate chances of any alteration taking place in the mode of worship under the dome of St. Sophia, or the effects of the "Kossack watering his steeds in the Rhine." I am not insensible to the dangers impending, and am an enthusiastic believer in "the balance of European power" and the "faith of treaties." I would not fiddle, like Nero, when Rome was on fire, nor did I ever in any way encourage those eccentric philanthopists who annually celebrate the downfall of Poland by a civic ball. But, during this week, in spite of Prince Menschikoff, and his modest proposals, "the Greek waters" and the squadrons cruising in them, and the fall of funds here, there, and everywhere, I have been unrestrainedly enjoying myself at Oxford, Ascot and Henley. I need not tell my readers, who were all there, of the style in which Teddington won the plate of the "Emperor of all the Russias," or how, on the banks of Isis, the vociferous undergraduates cheered and mobbed Mr. Disraeli, until they fairly drove him out of the town.

To all Oxonians and Cantabs, and to the people of the neighbourhood, this Regatta has become what the "Times" newspaper calls " a great fact." In the town itself it is looked upon as an institution. To the influx of cash during the aquatic week the hotel-keeper and the publican (not to mention sinners of other callings) look forward as a compensation for the unremunerating quiescence of the remainder of the year. Local scullers and rowers impatiently expect a triumph in their own "reach." The belles of the place choose their muslins in May with an especial view to undergraduate admiration, while their maiden aunts and citizen fathers are haunted by dismal forebodings of disasters which may happen to their knockers, and tremulous anticipations for their window-panes.

Well, my dear boating, or non-boating reader, suppose us to have arrived together any regatta day during the last five or six years at this fine old town on the banks of Father Thames. We

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will not imagine it to be a wet day, because that is not the normal state of the affair. At any rate, it is not what it should be, for rain is as hostile to the true interests of regattas as to that of pic-nics. It may be here remarked, that it does rain on the recurrence of this great event about once in three or (perhaps to be more accurate) three times in five years, and it rains on only one of the two days, and on that day, although the company is somewhat select and limited, and includes only those who are aquatically earnest, yet the sport is always good. Well, I said just now, we would suppose ourselves to have arrived, but it is perfectly clear that we must have previously started, and therefore one word on that. Well, then, granted fine weather; myself up early (not often the case), breakfast comfortably over (by the by, they are always uncomfortable) at my chambers in the Temple, and you having declined to breakfast with me (in which you showed your good taste), punctually meeting me in time for an early train at the great railway terminus, Paddington. Granted also a great rush of Oxford and Cambridge men of all sorts and seniority. There is the badly dressed freshman, whose apparel is a sort of mixture between fast and slow; the noisily attired, but yet more congruous and confident under-graduate, who has not long achieved little-go, and is not yet victimized by thoughts of degree; there is the unmistakable difference between Oxonians and Cantabs, which an experienced eye can always see. Some are reading the "Times," one or two (I am sorry to say, but they are the sons of country gentlemen of Sibthorpian calibre) the "Morning Herald;" a great many are making small bets very largely; a few that have come together are chatting, while others are wishing to talk to their neighbours, but dare not trample on university etiquette, for they have not been introduced.*

Granted also, that we stop at a country town on the river, not many miles from Henley, and that we pass through this place (which, by the by, is like many other country towns, for it has a church with a clock that never goes right, a town-hall, a pump, and a post-office), and call at the house of some very charming and hospitable friends of mine, to whom we mention, quite cursorily, that we are presently going to drive over to Henley, and are immediately invited to accompany them in their carriage. Granted, in fine, that we have had a very delightful drive, fallen very much in love with the young ladies of the party, who are very pretty, and (as we at first imagined) taken up a good position, with the carriage in the centre of the bridge which commands the magnificent reach of river, where the contests will take place. In an instant twenty ragged rascals surround us, and demand vociferously their several rights to take care of the carriage and horses.

There is a very old story of two men of the same college meeting on Mont Blanc and not speaking; and it is still better authenticated that an Oxford-man, some years ago, seeing another drowning in the Isis, passed by like the Priest and Levite in the parable, and afterwards regretted very deeply to a mutual friend that it was quite out of his power to save poor for they had never been introduced.

My friends have brought their own servants with them, but still these tattered harpies press themselves into the service, and pull the horses' heads about until we are backed against a neighbouring dog-cart, to the endangering of the shafts thereof. Before these fellows are driven off by our united efforts, three gypsies are on each side of the carriage, noisily requesting that their hands may be crossed with silver, and threatening us one and all with the longevity of Methuselah, and an offspring proportionately numerous. Before I can get my purse out to bribe them to move on, the prophetess nearest me has stated most audibly that I love the pretty lady (Miss Arabella), that the pretty lady loves me, that we shall be married in three months, and that Providence will twice bless us with twins, and these only four of a goodly heritage of thirteen children. Miss Arabella blushed hot. I am a shy young man, and so looked away very confusedly, attempting to make an unimportant observation on the probability of there being a shower, there not being at the time a chance of anything of the kind.

Before we have recovered from the effects of this most improper vaticination, a stout man, in a blue jacket and flannel continuations, observes to me, in a confidential tone, that, for half a crown, he will dive off the bridge into the river. From a sort of uncomfortable and malicious wish to get rid of him, even by seeing him drown himself, or almost equally in hopes of his starting off with the money, I reply, in a whisper, that I am prepared to advance the sum required. To my astonishment, instead of clutching the coin himself, he requests me to deposit it in the hand of a bystander, ascends the parapet of the bridge, and, to the confusion of the young ladies, divesting himself of the blue jacket, and indeed everything except the aforesaid continuations, and, to the alarm of their mamma, rapidly becoming hysterical, goes off headlong into the river. Scarcely able to conceal my exultation at the facetious expenditure of my half-crown, I fortunately detect in the crowd my friend Tomlinson, who was one of my set at Oxford, and who has now a curacy in the neighbourhood of Henley. I drag Tomlinson over, introduce him to Arabella, and then run across the road, to ask Spankey and Trevor, who are both making books on the regatta, what the odds are. I take this opportunity of strolling down with these two sporting worthies to the river side, while the Rev. Tomlinson is making himself agreeable to the fair occupants of the carriage. On the way we are requested to indulge in the pleasant pastime of stick-playing, and win innumerable useless toys, which we throw to a crowd of small boys, who scramble for them. Then, in despite of constables, the ancient game of thimble-rig is being clandestinely carried on in corners and quiet nooks on the side of the bank. While we are watching a freshman, who is always quite confident that he knows under which thimble the pea is, and see him, in spite of his acuteness, lose three half-sovereigns, our attention is attracted by three Henleians running past us in a frantic manner, cheering a sculler, who is progressing very slowly, and in such zig-zag fashion, that you think, for a moment, that the wind is ahead, and he is tacking.

The cause of exultation to the three pedestrians on the bank is the fact that, in the aquatic struggle, their friend Popjoy has distanced, by some lengths, his local rival Pedder. The excitement is maddening. Pedder has four friends running by his side, rending the air with their shouts of encouragement. Popjoy growing elated with victory, becomes careless, and standing rather too long on one tack, runs his skiff head-foremost into the bank, and there sticks fast. Pedder's backers yell with malignant joy, and he, gathering fresh courage from his antagonist's mishap, jerks his skiff forward (this, my non-boating reader, is called "putting on a spurt "), and runs the stationary Popjoy down, in rowing phraseology, "bumps" him. "A foul" is claimed for both parties; the dispute grows warm, and Popjoy and Pedder, with their several friends and patrons, rush off to the umpires, before whom they carry on the controversy. The umpires, one of whom is classical, and quotes three times "Non nostrum inter vos," &c., while another of satirical vein, calls them "Arcades ambo," and translates it (aside) "both are cads," at length give a decision, but what it was I really never cared to inquire, and cannot therefore inform my reader. I leave Trevor and Sparkey betting about a trick with three cards, which a vagabond was displaying to a select knot of men round him, much to his self-aggrandizement, and return to the ladies on the bridge. The Rev. Tomlinson, who is very strong in small talk, is still there-the ladies are all laughing. It is perfectly clear that I have not been missed, and need not apologize for my absence. But Tomlinson, of course, rallies me, and says that, during my wanderings on the bank, it seemed to the ladies" the bridge of sighs." "Pons asinorum," I retort, in a low voice, to the reverend wag. He takes forthwith to conundrums, informs the ladies that there is a connection between the spirit-rappings and table-moving, because he says the table, as it goes round, is a circulating medium. He asserts that when the spirits do not reply, it is because they do not care a rap for the interrogator, and, waxing classical, avers that the Horatian reason for table-moving is "Solvuntur risu tabulæ." I finish the line to him, "tu missus abibis," and Tomlinson thinking that, after his jokes, he can make what is called a strong exit," takes off simultaneously his hat-and himself.

By this time the bridge looks gayer, the river more beautiful, and the whole scene more exciting. The bands are playing popular polkas and stirring waltzes on the barge; the church bells are ringing, the sun comes out brightly, and the wide reach of river sparkles below us; the two university eight-oar boats pass under the arches of the bridge, on their way to the starting post. Every one is lunching on the carriages, although the dust is blowing into the champagne and the lobster salad. The gipsies are as troublesome as ever. University men, in neck-ties of dark blue and light blue, many with "zephyrs," a few with white hats, and many, I fear, smoking, pass to and fro. The little iron steamer from a neighbouring town, runs up and down the river, with its Lilliputian funnel puffing and snorting most hilariously; on the

left bank, some people enjoy the Regatta, in a haughty and exclusive manner from their own windows and gardens; the right bank is crowded with spectators, and with the green fields behind, and the well-wooded hill above them, there lies before us such a sight as is not elsewhere to be found.

But the race of the day will now take place. Popjoy and Pedder are forgotten. A contest between a college at Cambridge and the Corsair Club has gone off without enthusiasm, but now Oxford and Cambridge, with picked river heroes, will strive for aquatic preeminence Now, plausible young gentlemen, of a sporting turn, with book and pencil in hand, ask if you will lay the odds on Oxford. Of course you reply that you expect he will lay them on Cambridge; a small bet, on even terms, is concluded, and you feel, for the time, very sporting indeed. The boats have started; not three or four, but three or four hundred, shouting maniacs rush along the river side; Tomlinson, who passes me at the moment, observes drily that there is "a run on the bank." I have so often run over people, and been run over at Henley, that, on this occasion, I stay with the ladies. It is a stoutly contested race. If you want a description of it, read the fifth Eneid, or "Bell's Life." In the latter you may find, some two or three years back, profoundest criticisms by Charon, and slashing letters from Menippus -Cerberus also had his bark. Suffice it that Oxford wins—I am in ecstasies. From the combined effects of the champagne and the victory, I feel almost maudlin with sentimental joy, and so I stroll up the town by myself, and muse over past Regattas. There stands the balcony of the inn where I was introduced to the crowd of small boys as Feargus O'Connor-a frolic long ago chronicled in Bentley's Miscellany." There is the long room used on Sundays for schismatical teaching, which we, with daring profanity, turned into a theatre, and in it played classic tragedy, travesties most laughable, and screaming farce. Which of us does not remember the pulpit in the green room? who can forget how Stapyldon and I, who were noble Greek youths in the tragedy, had but one pair of sandals between us, and how he went on in his stockings; how I had to borrow a sheet from the hotel for a toga; how Herringham, having to pronounce a benediction in blank verse, on the youthful hero of the play, put his hand upon his head, and losing his presence of mind, said, "God bless you, my boy;" how Stapyldon, having appointed his man-servant check-taker, the said check-taker got drunk, and when a great civic authority presented an order for admission, signed by Staplydon, the inebriated treasurer first denied him entrance, and, on his remonstrating, thrashed him.

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Next I pass a spot where we pulled down a pig-sty, and erected a barricade, but, as Cicero says of Athens "quacunque ingredimur in aliquam historiam vestigium ponimus;" and as I should only grow more sentimental as I think over those days of reckless jollity, I will, therefore, cry "vive valeque" to my reader, and tell him that, though I still go to Henley, I am now a wiser and a sadder men.