system of training—that is to say, of diet, of early hours, of healthy exercise, and of perfect regularity in all things, which has so admirable an effect upon the condition of the body, should sometimes impair the powers of the mind, and absolutely shatter the temper. I have seen eight healthy, happy, even-tempered young men go into training together for three weeks. They were all the best of friends. Tom had known Dick at school, and both had been inseparable from Harry ever since they had gone up to the University. With these three the other five were closely linked by a common pursuit and by common interests. Each one of them was a man of whom his friends could say, he was the easiest man to get on with you could possibly meet. Yet mark what happened. At the end of three weeks every man in that crew was the proud possessor of seven detested foes. They ate their food in morose silence; they took no delight in the labour of the oar, and each one confided to his outside friends his lamentable opinions about the seven other members of the crew. Even now, though years have passed away, no one who rowed in that crew can look back without horror on those three terrible weeks. Why was this so? The
simple answer is this, that the crew in question did not number among its members a butt. I doubt if the importance of a butt in modern boat-racing has been properly recognized. Speaking from an experience of many years, I should affirm unhesitatingly, if I did not remember what I have written in previous chapters, that in an ordinary crew, composed, as ordinary crews are, of men and not of angels, the position of butt is a far more important and responsible one than that of stroke or No. 7. If you can find a good, stout, willing butt—a butt who lends himself to nicknames, and has a temper as even as a billiard-table and as long as a tailor's bill—secure him at once and make him the nucleus of your crew. There may be difficulties, of course, if he should happen to be a heavy weight without a notion of oarsmanship, but these defects can easily be mitigated by good coaching, and in any case they cannot be allowed to count against the supreme merit of keeping the rest of the crew in good temper. Salient characteristics are apt to be a rock of offence to a training crew. To be a silent thinker does not give rise to happiness in the seven who watch you think. It is an even deadlier thing to be an eloquent gabbler
or a dreary drawler. There is nothing an ordinary rowing man detests so much as windy eloquence, unless it be perhaps the miserable indolence which is known as slackness. The butt must therefore be neither silent, nor slack, nor a drawler. Nature will probably have saved him from being a thinker or an orator. He must be simply good-natured without affectation, and ready to allow tempers made stormy by rowing and training to break upon his broad back without flinching. Your true butt is always spoken of as "old" So-and-so, and, as a rule, he is a man of much sharper wits, with a far keener insight into character, than most of those who buffet or tease him. Among eminent butts may be named Mr.——, but on second thoughts I refrain.
Leisure Time.
It seems a mere platitude to say that a man who can occupy his spare moments in writing or reading is likely to be happier and more even-tempered than one who is never seen with a book or a pen in his hand. Yet it is a platitude of which not many oarsmen realize the force; and, indeed, it is not an uncommon sight to see most of the members of a
crew sitting about listlessly in armchairs or talking the stale futilities of rowing shop when they might with more solid advantage be engaged, let us say, in following Mr. Stanley Weyman's or Dr. Conan Doyle's latest hero through the mazes of his exciting adventures. At Oxford or Cambridge, of course, a man has his lectures to attend, his fixed tale of work to get through. But at Putney or at Henley this is not so. There a man is thrown back on his own resources, a companionship which he does not always seem to find particularly cheerful or attractive. A billiard table, of course, is a valuable adjunct to training quarters, but this is scarcely ever found at Henley, and not always at Putney. Besides, most of us, after a short time, cease to take any pleasure whatever in a game in which we are not qualified to shine. The joy of reading the sporting reporter's account of your doings, and of proving conclusively that he knows nothing about rowing, lasts but a short time every morning. I may, therefore, offer the oarsman a piece of advice which is, sound, in spite of its copybook flavour, and that is, that he shall cultivate a habit of reading, and, if possible, of reading good literature. Many moralists might recommend this habit on the
common ground that good literature tends to improve the tone of a man's mind; and even a coach who is not a moralist will find it useful in distracting the thoughts of his men. Besides, it is quite pleasant in after life to recognize a well-worn quotation in a newspaper article, and to remember, probably with complete inaccuracy, where it originated. A little attention to writing and spelling might also prove valuable. Oarsmen who had devoted themselves, say for ten minutes a day, to these simple tasks, would have been saved from perpetrating the following correspondence, which I quote verbatim et literatim from letters in my possession:—
"Dear——
"It has been reported to me that you broke training last night you were seen smoking not only a few wiffs but a whole pipe I have therefore decided to turn you out of the boat.
"Yours, etc."