shoulder of mutton and a piece of cheese not in its first freshness. At the close of our entertainment we begged to see our little bill. On being presented, we found that it rated us at ten shillings a head. We made some faint remonstrance. But our host was impregnable; and, far from submitting to an attack, retorted upon us. He pointed out the obvious fact that this was an unusual occasion; and that he not only had charged us, with a proper moderation for the use of the room and the refreshments which he had furnished, but that he had actually behaved with generosity. He ought to have charged us for every cork of our own bottles that had been drawn in that room;-he had not done so. He drew himself up, and stood as a man of integrity whom it would indeed be impossible to convince, but whom, after his statement, we could not wish to defraud - justum et tenacem propositi

virum.

The race was pulled as evening came on; and, as the time for it drew near, the whole crowd of Oxford and Cambridge men swelled down to the river-side and on the bridge; the Oxford men showing their blue favours; the Cambridge pink. I was fortunate enough to get a capital position for seeing the conclusion of the race, on the top of the little bridge-house at the Berkshire end of Henley bridge. The start was out of sight. The odds, it will be remembered, were offered and taken against Oxford. A defeat was confidently expected even by Oxford men; so that we who wore blue, on taking our stand as we could to see the end of the race, were not in the highest possible spirits. At last it was known that the boats were off. And here I will set down a story which was told at the time, and generally believed. Our friendly antagonists, at starting, were said to have complained that their oars fouled in the weeds. In consequence of this complaint the start was decided not to have been a fair one, and a second was made. Then the Oxford coxswain steered his men through the same water of which the Cambridge crew

had complained, and pleasantly called out to them, 'Weeds, weeds!' I have made it my business to inquire into this story, and am able to say, on the best possible evidencethe evidence of some of the crew of the Oxford boat-that it is untrue. What really happened was this. The Cambridge men, having won the toss for choice of side, chose the Berkshire shore. Then, at the start, the Cambridge coxswain steered out into the stream. If the course so steered had been acquiesced in by the Oxford coxswain, the result would have been that the Oxford boat must have endured the serious disadvantage of standing over to the Oxfordshire shore. He therefore held on his own course, and the oars of the two boats fouled. This was a moment of great excitement. The umpires were called on to give directions and their decision was, that, there being plenty of water on the Berkshire side, both boats should be allowed to pull over it. Nevertheless, after the second start, the Oxford boat did not pass the Cambridge quite so quickly as after the first. Very soon but then the time seemed very long-the boats showed themselves rounding the bend of the river. All doubts were over. The first corona navalis was to come to Oxford. see that the Times,' in describing the character of the races, has marked this as being won ' easily.' I doubt whether those who pulled in it would use that word. Certainly it was very cleanly done. The Cambridge boat had no chance at any time after it was seen from Henley bridge; but I think scarcely sufficient justice is rendered to the skill and resolution of the Cambridge crew by the use of the word easily.' However, the thing was settled; and in a few minutes the Oxford boat came up to an arch of Henley bridge, well ahead, and shot under to the landing-place. Never shall I forget the shout that rose among the hills. Any one who has been at Henley will recollect how well the valley lies for reverberating sound. Men who loved Horace must have thought of his lines to Mæcenas

I

-'ut paterni
Fluminis ripæ, simul et jocosa
Redderet laudes tibi, Vaticani
Montis imago.'

Certainly the echo, image of the Berkshire hills, made itself heard. It has never fallen to my lot to hear such a shout since. There was fierce applause at the Installation of the Duke of Wellington a few years after, and there has been applause under a hundred roofs since; but applause that fills a valley is a different thing. I did not see the great pageant of the entry of the Princess Alexandra into London; but I had the good fortune to see her embark with the Prince of Wales, at Southampton, on the evening of their marriage. The quays, and the Southampton water, gave back no such answer to our cheers as the Henley valley gave on the roth of June, 1829.

Last year, the Times' has usefully chronicled the dates and results of all the races, beginning with this. Let me take the opportunity of putting on record the names of both the crews of 1829. I give the names from a list furnished to me by one of themselves:

OXFORD.

1. Mr. Carter, St. John's.
2. Mr. Arbuthnot, Balliol.
3. Mr. Bates, Ch. Ch.

4. Mr. Wordsworth, Ch. Ch.
5. Mr. Toogood, Balliol.
6. Mr. Garnier, Worcester.
7. Mr. Moore, Ch. Ch.

8. Mr. Staniforth, Stroke, Ch. Ch. Steerer, Mr. Fremantle, Ch. Ch.

CAMBRIDGE.

1. Mr. Holdsworth.

2. Mr. Bayford.

3. Mr. Warren.
4. Mr. Merivale.
5. Mr. Entwistle.
6. Mr. Thompson.
7. Mr. Selwyn.
8. Mr. Snow, Stroke.
Steerer, Mr. Heath.

I will not attempt to annotate this list. Many readers of this magazine may easily swell the names which I have given them into biographies, from their own knowledge and

friendships. You who read this description having been, like myself, eye-witnesses, will recollect the reception which awaited the Oxford crew as they stepped on shore from their boat. There was no doubt about their muscle; but really it seemed as if their friends thought their backs had been made by a boat-builder. The sententious statement of Sophocles,* that not the broad-backed men are those who enjoy most safety, received an interpretation of which that excellent dramatist probably never thought. We who had not pulled, and were not specially noticeable for immense development between the shoulders, stood in safety; but the thumps and claps on the back which that crew experienced from the unreflecting ardour of friendship and enthusiasm, must certainly have been trying. They were soon lost in the crowd; and have since taken their places among ordinary mortal men. But if, as the Times' prophecies, the University boat-race is hereafter to be looked forward to with an interest little short of that with which the Derby is now anticipated,' the memory of these eight and their Coxswain will become fresher every year, and will remain in history long after the day when the last of the broad-backs, and the skilful coxswain, have ceased to be seen on earth or water. The race over, the Cambridge men added to the esteem that was felt for their gallantry in contesting it by a striking piece of modesty. Before the race, as I said, Henley swarmed with pink and blue favours; after it, pink was scarcely to be seen. The Cambridge men, I might say entirely, withdrew their colours, and appeared unmarked. I recollect being very much struck with this circumstance. In a most beautiful summer evening, such as summer evenings are to the eyes of nineteen and twenty, we drove back to Oxford, loaded with blue ribbons, and lustily cheered in the villages as we wen through. We arrived in time to

WHERE does Freddy get his

complexion?"

Such was the question that suggested itself to my mind as I was walking up St. James's Street, one afternoon last month. Not that it originated itself spontaneously either; for, being neither a Freethinking bishop nor a Radical M.P., I am not in the way of originating difficult questions; and, in fact, I sometimes find over-much difficulty in solving those that other people originate for me. Such, for instance, as the difficulty of choosing between two equally-eligible invitations to dinner on the same day; the question why all the best shooting counties are only to be reached by such a railway as the Great Eastern; the formidable annual question of my tailor's bill, and others equally puzzling, which, had they waited for my origination, would have slept unvexed for ever.

The fact is, I saw Freddy coming down the street as I was going up. As usual, he was the very picture of happiness; his handsome smooth face (which the bearded Brown calls 'babyish') wreathed in gracious smiles, his hat giving just the idea (and no more) of being on one side, and his whole air breathing the consciousness that he was a general favourite, and knew it.

Now there are several unresolved questions about Freddy which the bearded Brown is never tired of putting. Where does he get his coats? Why does he turn his collars two inches lower down than any other man in London?'-' Does he wear stays?'-'What is he good for besides waltzing and smalltalk?' But the chief of all, and the one that Brown always asks as his final and crushing point is, 'Where does he get his complexion?' And as Freddy sauntered up to me, carelessly swinging the slender umbrella he always carries in fine weather, I could not resist the temptation to ask him myself.

He smiled in his languid way

(Brown says there is a world of affectation in his smile), and daintily buttoned his glove.

'I suppose Nature gave it me,' said he.

'But even Nature can't stand the London season. How do you manage to keep it?'

He smiled again, and showed his teeth, which even Brown admits are good (adding, that they ought to be at the price').

'Come with me, and I'll show you how I keep it.'

So we turned down the street and into Cleveland Row, at the end of which stands a building of austere aspect, apparently built upon the old model of Little Bethel chapel. Into this Freddy led me. To my astonishment, I found myself in a large and lofty hall surrounded by a gallery, and lit up with gas (for it was already getting dark). From the roof hung ladders, trapèzes, and incomprehensible ropes of all sizes and lengths, while at the further end were single and parallel bars, many-handled machines for pulling at, and all the dreadful machinery of gymnastics. The scene in the centre of the room was striking, not to say alarming. Six couples of fencers, masked and padded, were there opposed, struggling in frantic desperation, advancing, retreating, lunging, stamping and shouting as though possessed. Most of the combatants, I noticed, were men I either knew personally, or by sight, and from meeting them in society. There were civil servants not a few. There were two Guardsmen helmeted and spurred, smoking by the fire, and a stray barrister was measuring himself round the chest. Nor was Honourable House' unrepresented; for two of the national legislators-one hereditary and the other elected-were contending with as much ardour, and certainly as much pleasure, as if they had been fighting over 'Reasons' in the Painted Chamber. Freddy informed me that I was in the 'London