“a work of genius.”
A great consideration in estimating the happiness of such a time as this is the question, “What did you have to eat?” But the answer to this has been given so many times that it would be merely wearisome now to detail the various dishes that are or are not “good for training.” Enough to say that, as everybody knows, the old rigorous system of raw beef and beer is a thing of the past—except the beer. Nowadays, it is considered sufficient to banish all very unwholesome things from the table, while keeping as nearly as possible to each man’s ordinary diet. In point of quantity there are practically no restrictions, unless the Captain considers that any man does not know when he has had enough (which, alas! may occur); in which case he may remonstrate with him gently, but firmly. I have seen a man eat for breakfast a sole and a half, three chops, a poached egg, and some watercress; but I confess that this was regarded as a work of genius. The ordinary man in training eats only about twice as much as any sane person, or perhaps a little more; and as, of course, the system needs recuperating under the great strains that are put upon it, this trifling excess has its justification.
However, the result of this wear and tear and repair of the muscular tissue is that the activity of the mind decreases in inverse proportion to that of the body; and during a hard course of training the rowing man is generally rather sleepy and unintellectual. This matters all the less that studies are forbidden—not a very difficult rule to enforce—during the latter part of the time. But training once over, the strength and health accumulated can certainly do no harm either physical or mental, and a healthy body is the best guarantee for an active mind (see Latin authors and copybooks passim).
“lapped in profoundest sleep.”
About three weeks or less before the race a move is made to Putney, where, as a general rule, very comfortable quarters are provided. The pleasantest of all that the Oxford crew have had lately has been the Lyric Club House; but it is not really a good place for the men’s health. Lying, as it does, just down by the river, the air is not half so bracing as that of the higher ground. Still, it is undoubtedly very convenient to have a billiard-table or two to while away the men’s time in the evening. Without something of the kind time is apt to hang very heavily on their hands. Conversation flags, the chairs feel very comfortable after the day’s work, and Morpheus, drowsy god, steals in unawares. Now, this is not only bad hygienically, but is apt to have very awkward consequences of a different kind. One man more wakeful than the rest casts his eye around, seeking for his prey. He spies an unfortunate lapped in profoundest sleep. His hand steals out and clutches a book. He hurls it—and in a moment all is confusion. Each man, starting from his guilty slumbers, springs up to cast the proverbial stone, and in this case usually a book, at his fellow-sinner, vowing that he has been watching the nodding of the victim, and only waiting for the proper moment to visit him with condign punishment. And so, with protestations, objurgations, and such light and cheerful pastime, the hours roll away till the happy 10.30 comes, when all incontinently roll off to bed.
“‘take it off.’”
But if the men go to bed early, they make up for it by rising early too; and if they are sleepy at night, they feel delightfully fresh in the morning. A brisk walk over the common sends the human barometer spinning upwards; they feel ready for any fun that comes in their way. And, alas! did not this same buoyancy of spirit not many years ago involve certain respectable oarsmen in a difference with the executive? Tacenda, indeed! Yet if a rabbit springs up out of the gorse, and the dogs are off in full cry, can nature in such a mood be stubborn?