IF the "towers of Julius" are, as Gray called them, "London's lasting shame," the River is the lasting pride of Oxford. When does "The River" cease to be Isis and become Thames? One might as well ask when it ceases to be Thames and becomes Isis. The term is probably not used out of Oxford, and with much vagueness there. Matthew Arnold speaks of "the stripling Thames at Bablock-Hythe" (a very lovely ferry higher up than Oxford), and at Abingdon nobody talks about the Isis. The use of the name is one of the odd and pleasant conservatisms of Oxford.
Then, again, there are two rivers in Oxford, according to the map, Thames and Cherwell; but to the undergraduate there are three—"The River," "The Upper River," and "The Cher." For the sake of strangers it may be well to elucidate this enigma. "The River" is that part of the Thames which begins at Folly Bridge and ends at Sandford, except that on the occasion of "long courses" and Commemoration picnics it is prolonged as far as Nuneham. It is understood subsequently to pass through several counties and reach eventually the German Ocean. You do not go upon "The River" commonly for amusement, but for stern and serious work. You aspire to a thwart in your College "torpid" first, then in your College "eight," with the fantastic possibility of a place in the "Trials" or—crown of all—in the 'Varsity "Eight" on some distant and auspicious day! It is no child's-play that is involved, as every oarsman knows. "The River" is an admirable school of self-control and self-denial, and "training"—long may it flourish!—is one of the best of disciplines. It has been said, and with truth, that boating-men are the salt of undergraduate society.
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The "Torpids" are rowed in March—you will appreciate this fact if you are rowing "bow" and a hailstorm comes on—in eight-oared boats with fixed seats. The name bestowed on them seems a little unkind. The "Eights" come off in the summer term, when sliding seats are used—to the greater comfort of the oarsmen, and the greater gratification of the lookers-on, for this rowing is out of all comparison prettier, and of course the boats travel at a greater pace. Both "Eights" and "Torpids," as most people are aware, are bumping races; that is, the boats start each at a given distance from the one behind it, and the object is to bump the boat in front, and so bump one's way to that proudest of all positions, "the Head of the River." A bump in front of the Barges (which Mr. Matthison has sketched), following a long and stern chase from Iffley, is a thing to live for.
West of Folly Bridge "The River" might as well, for all the ordinary undergraduate knows of it, sink for some distance, like a certain classic stream, beneath the ground. Venturesome explorers tell of a tract of water put to base mechanical uses, flanked by dingy wharves and overlooked by attic windows.
But to most boating-men "The River" ends at Salter's, only to reappear in the modified form and style of "The Upper River" at Port Meadow. "The Upper River" is some distance from everything else, but it is well worth the journey to Port Meadow. There is nothing strenuous about "The Upper River." It always seems afternoon there, and a lazy afternoon. The standard of oarsmanship may not be very high, but no one is in a hurry and no one is censorious. To enjoy the Upper River as it deserves to be enjoyed, you should have laboured at the Torpid oar a Lent Term, and have found yourself not required (this year) for the Eight. You know quite enough of rowing, in such a case, to cut a figure on the Upper River; but you will not want to cut it. If you appreciate your surroundings properly, you will want to sit in the stern while somebody else does the rowing; or, if you take an oar, you will want to pull in leisurely fashion and to look about you as you please, in the blissful absence of raucous injunctions to "keep your eyes in the boat." There is much that is pleasant to look upon—the wide expanse of Port Meadow on the right, on the towpath willows waving in the wind, and on the water here and there the white sail of a centre-board. As you draw near Godstow, you may see cattle drinking, knee-deep in the stream; you may land and refresh yourself, if you will, at the "Trout" at Godstow; may visit the ruins of the nunnery, with their memories of "Fair Rosamond;" or, leaning on the bridge-rail over Godstow weir, lulled by the ceaseless murmur of the water, may muse upon the vanity of mere ambition and the servitude of such as row in College Eights. Then, if the day be young enough, you may go on to Eynsham or to Bablock-Hythe, and perhaps afoot to Stanton-Harcourt, a most lovely village; and returning at dusk, when the stream appears to widen indefinitely as the light fails, you will vow that for sheer peace and enjoyment there is nothing like the Upper River.
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Unless, indeed, it be the Cherwell. This little stream, which flows into the Isis near the last of the Barges, while it winds about Christ Church Meadow, Magdalen, and Mesopotamia, is edged about, with shadowy walks; but once clear of the Parks, it is embedded in grassy and flower-laden banks, through which your boat passes with a lively sense of exploration. Presently, at a break in all this greenery, you come abreast of a grey stone building, with ancient gables and air of reposeful dignity. Instinctively your oar-blades rest upon the water, for so much beauty demands more than a moment's admiration. It is Water Eaton Hall, one of those smaller Elizabethan manor-houses which have survived the violence of the Rebellion and the neglect of impoverished owners. All about its aged masonry is the growth and freshness of the spring. Oxford is several miles away, but even so you are reminded of her special charm—the association of reverend age with youth's perennial renewal.
