Source: THE ISTHMIAN LIBRARY: A Series of Volumes dealing popularly with the whole range of Field Sports and Athletics. From Vol. IV. Rowing. By R. C. Lehmann, with chapters by Guy Nickalls and C. M. Pitman. Pages 226 and 227.

"Before entering upon the serious business of life as a freshman at Cambridge, the youth who is subsequently to become an oar will in all probability have fired his imagination by reading of the historical prowess of past generations of University oars in races at Henley or at Putney. Goldie who turned the tide of defeat, the Closes, Rhodes, Gurdon, Hockin, Pitman the pluckiest of strokes, and Muttlebury the mighty heavy-weight, are the heroes whom he worships, and to whose imitation he proposes to devote himself. A vision of a light blue coat and cap flits before his mind; he sees himself in fancy wresting a fiercely contested victory from the clutches of Oxford, and cheered and fêted by a countless throng of his admirers. With these ideas he becomes as a freshman a member of his college boat club, and adds his name to the "tubbing list." He purchases his rowing uniform, clothes himself in it in his rooms, and one fine afternoon in October finds himself one of a crowd of nervous novices in the yard of his college boathouse. One of the captains pounces on him, selects a co-victim for him, and orders him into a gig-pair, or, to speak more correctly, "a tub."

With the first stroke the beautiful azure vision vanishes, leaving only a sense of misery behind. He imagined he could row as he walked, by the light of nature. He finds that all kinds of mysterious technicalities are required of him. He has to "get hold of the beginning" to "finish it out," to take his oar "out of the water clean" (an impossibility one would think on the dirty drain-fed Cam), to "plant his feet against the stretcher," to row his shoulders back, to keep his elbows close to his sides, to shoot away his hands, to swing from his hips, under no circumstances to bend his back or to leave go with his outside hand, and, above all, to keep his swing forward as steady as a rock—an instruction to which he conforms by not swinging at all. These are but a few points out of the many which are dinned into his ears by his energetic coach. A quarter of an hour concludes his lesson, and he leaves the river a much sadder, but not necessarily a wiser man.

However, since he is young he is not daunted by all these unforeseen difficulties. He perseveres, and towards the end of his first term reaps a doubtful reward by being put into an Eight with seven other novices, to splash and roll and knock his knuckles about for an hour or so to his heart's content. Next term (the Lent Term) may find him a member of one of his college Lent boats. Then he begins to feel that pluck and ambition are not in vain, and soon afterwards for the first time he tastes the joys of training, which he will be surprised to find does not consist entirely of raw steaks and underdone chops. Common sense, in fact, has during the past fifteen years or so broken in upon the foolish regulations of the ancient system. Men who train are still compelled to keep early hours, to eat simple food at fixed times, to abjure tobacco, and to limit the quantity of liquid they absorb. But there is an immense variety in the dishes put before them; they are warned against gorging (at breakfast, indeed, men frequently touch no meat), and though they assemble together in the Backs before breakfast, and are ordered to clear their pipes by a short sharp burst of one hundred and fifty yards, they are not allowed to overtire themselves by the long runs which were at one time in fashion.

Far away back in the dawn of University rowing training seems to have been far laxer, though discipline may have been more strict, than it is now. Mr. J. M. Logan (the well-known Cambridge boat-builder) wrote to me on this subject: "I have heard my father say that the crews used to train on egg-flip which an old lady who then kept the Plough Inn by Ditton was very famous for making, and that crew which managed to drink most egg-flip was held to be most likely to make many bumps. I believe the ingredients were gin, beer, and beaten eggs, with nutmegs and spices added. I have heard my father say that the discipline of the crews was of an extraordinary character. For instance, the captain of the Lady Margaret Boat Club used to have a bugle, and after he had sounded it the crew would have to appear on the yard in high hats and dress suits with a black tie. The penalty for appearing in a tie of any other colour was one shilling. The trousers worn on these occasions were of white jean, and had to be washed every day under a penalty of one shilling. The wearing of perfectly clean things every day was an essential part of the preparation.""