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most hexitibel and hunmistakabel langvidge has could come from your blessed traps, 'ee his a harrant himposter.

"Could hi blame yer for hexpressing yer feelinks in sich langvidge? No. Hi vould say to my disturbed conscience, has was at that very moment a tearing my hinsides to pieces, 'you, Villiam Bowsley, have forsaken the good karraktir has was 'anded down to yer by hancestors who 'ad their hown hestates, 'osses, and kerridges; Villiam Bowsley, you 'ave been han harrant himpostor, and deserves to be 'ung.' Vell, does I tell ye that these ere rings is goold? No; on the contreery, I says they are brass. Vell, may be ye don't care so much for brass harticles. Ham hi a friend of brass? No, agin. But I ham a friend of Hart. I asks ye to look at this ere image of Mr. Gladstun, as is now hour blessed Pri-meer. Wos hever anything so beau-ty-fool? Look at the insinivatin smile on 'is sveet feetyures. Ven I last dined vith Mr. Gladstun-ye needn't laff, cos ye knows, perhaps, the story in the Good Book of the bad children 'oo chaffed the old Profits and wus heat hup by bares-ven I last dined vith Gladstun, hour blessed Pri-meer, he says, 'Bill'-he calls me 'Bill' ven 'ee his friendly -Bill, them pictures on them ere kam-c-o-s as you sells is my likeness just like twins. Cos, vy,' said he, 'my maiden haunt reckignized them, and fainted avay ven she seed vun.'"

Passing along a few feet I am attracted by the noise of a loud, rough voice, that is shouting over the thickly packed heads of another crowd:

"Step hup gentlemen and take a look hat the noble hart of Self-Defence has his practised in the Royal Tent. This vay gentlemen, honly tuppens. Brisket Bill and the 'Ackney Vick Cove is a goin' to set-too. Step hup."

There is a large tent back from the path covered all over with representations of half-naked boxers in the act of defending themselves, or mauling or beating each other to pieces, and the master pugilist stands on a high bench to attract the crowd, while at the same time he can look inside of the tent and direct the ceremonies by calling time and announcing the names of the combatants. Two wretched, miserable looking women,

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their features furrowed with want, their eyes bleared with gin, and their general appearance indicative of hard luck, cruel treatment and filth, hold each a sheet of the tent in their hands, and one of them puts out her hand to take the two pence which is the price of admission.

I pass in to the tent and find twenty or thirty hard-looking cases circling around "Brisket Bill" and the "Hackney Wick Cove," who are stripped to their waists, their features inflamed with passion, their hair cropped short, and boxing gloves on their hands. There are hálf a dozen burly, big soldiers in the tent belonging to different arms of the Queen's service, and two of them wear the red shell jackets and army fatigue caps of the Life Guards. Brisket Bill is a low-sized, compact, thick witted brute in corduroys and heavy hob-nailed shoes; who has been probably "starring" in the provinces, and the Hackney Cove is a tall, well-made, fresh-faced-looking young fellow, who is quite lively on his feet, and seems to rather like the punishment which Brisket gives him every now and then in the chest and face.

A ruffianly faced scoundrel offers me a ticket to go to his boxing benefit on the next Monday night, which is declined, and at the next moment the Hackney Cove knocks Brisket Bill, with a tremendous blow, kicking at my feet, while cheers greet the feat from the Life Guards, roughs, thieves, and clodhoppers in the tent, and the Master Pugilist cries from the top of the tent outside:

"Vind hup, Brisket; 'it 'im 'ard and be done vith your lark. ing. Give these gentlemen the vorth of their tupence. Vind hup, I say, and stop 'im."

Going down the towing path I found the crowd increasing every moment, and all streaming from the direction of London. A great number of soldiers were present all in bright uniform, without side-arms, and all carrying jaunty canes-lancers, foot guards, riflemen, artillery drivers, men of the siege train, heavy cavalry, dragoons, and light-infantry men. The majority of these warriors bold were accompanied by their sweethearts, pretty, clear-skinned English girls in their best bibs and tuckers,

and of course they all wore the Oxford blue on their persons. Hundreds of small dirty-faced and ragged boys swarmed in and out of the numerous tents, and many grown men were endeavoring by bawling loudly, to dispose of badges and rosettes. Some of them had pieces of wide dark blue ribbon with the words cribbed from the famous ballad of Tommy Dodd a little altered, inscribed in gilt type on them:

"Now boys, let's all go in;
Oxford-Oxford sure to win,

Tommy Dodd."

Others sold small rosettes with the words "Oxford Laurels" engraved, and Harvard badges made of red, white, and blue lutestring, bearing the arms of the United States, the eagle rampant, and screaming fiercely, while one costermonger's cart had elevated on canvas in bold letters, the words of Nelson at Trafalgar, forever classic in the English tongue :

"ENGLAND EXPECTS THIS DAY THAT EVERY MAN SHALL DO HIS DUTY."

Almost every person who passed this costermonger cart cheered or approved of the legend in some way, while as a counter irritant a party of Americans who had hired a whole house, had the Star Spangled Banner displayed with the following couplet underneath, in glaring type, and which attracted very consid erable attention :

"Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: In God be our trust!"

I saw numbers of Americans, during the great excitement of that memorable day, pass and repass the sacred symbol of their country just for the sake of lifting their hats to the dear old flag. Blood is thicker than water-even if it was only a boat race. One young fellow who had been for four years studying his profession at Halle, in Germany, and had not seen the Gridiron during that time, doffed his hat twice and was cheered from the balcony in return; and when he came to

THE DEAR OLD FLAG.

361

me and spoke, his eyelashes were humid, and, when I asked him what was the matter, he answered in a polyglot of Deutsch

and English:

"Ach Gott! I've been having a blamed good cry at the sight of the Stars and Stripes."

And thus the day passed, and the sun declined in force and fell in strips of silver and gold and purple on Putney church and steeple, and on all that mad, roaring, shouting, gambling, eating, and drinking multitude, that lined both banks of the river from Putney to Mortlake-a million human beings in all-to witness ten lads struggle for less than half an hour in two frail boats.

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CHAPTER XXIV.

STRUGGLE AND VICTORY.

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SI passed down the towing path toward the stone house where the Harvard crew were resting, I saw the blue blades of four slender oars elevated above the crowd, and passing through the closely wedged ranks. The men who carried them, the Oxford Four, appeared on the river's bank-four fine looking young fellows, with the coxswain, a mere lad, in their rowing suits. take a paddle preparatory to the race, for Thames toward the Duke of Devonshire's. and were loudly cheered as they got into paddled up the river.

They were going to

half a mile up the They looked well, their boat. They

As I passed the gate of the stone house I saw the Chevalier Wykoff and George Wilkes standing together and spoke to them both. Just at this moment the face of Loring, the stroke of the Harvard crew, appeared looking out toward the river, which was packed with boats full of people. There was something in the man's face that I did not like. I had not seen him for a few days previous. He had a huge boil under his right chin in his neck, with a white crust on the top of it; his eyes seemed wild, his manner anxious and hurried, and altogether he seemed very unsteady. I shook hands with him and asked him how he felt.

He said slowly, "Pretty well," and after we talked a few minutes he went in to prepare for the struggle. I stepped back to the towing path and spoke to Mr. Wilkes, who asked of me,

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