And again, though it may seem a paradox to say it, the amount of play in Oxford has increased the amount of work. Organized games mean physical fitness, and physical fitness means ability to get intellectual work done. Perhaps it may be argued that the absorption in athletics deadens all intellectual life, and that many Oxford men read only and discuss only the sporting news in the papers; this no doubt has a strange fascination, even for men who do not play; one of the most distinguished of Oxford statesmen of the last generation, himself so blind that he could not hit a ball, confessed to me that he always, in the summer, read the cricket news in The Times before he read anything else. But he and many other Oxford men read something else, too. And it may be maintained without question that the hard exercise, which is the fashion in Oxford, tends to keep men's bodies healthy and to raise the moral tone of the place. Oxford and Cambridge may not be what they should be in morals, but they compare very favourably in this respect with other towns.
All this seems a far cry from Iffley Mill; but Iffley means to an Oxford man, not so much the picturesque village, nor even its gem of a Norman Church that towers above the lock, but the place where Eights and Torpids start for the races. And the boating, which is so associated with the name of Iffley, is still—and long may it be so—the queen of Oxford sports. To succeed as an oar, a man has to learn to sacrifice the present to the future, to scorn delights and live laborious days, to work together with others, and to sink his individuality in the common cause. These are great qualities, and therefore in any book on Oxford, the picture, which recalls them and is their symbol, has a right to a place.
Printed in Great Britain.
Letterpress by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh.
Plates engraved and printed by Henry Stone & Son, Ltd., Banbury.
