In America an oarsman wears socks and trunks which are apt to be the briefest possible. If he wears a shirt at all, it is often a mere ribbon bounding the three enormous apertures through which he thrusts his neck and shoulders. Before going on the river he is likely to shiver, in spite of the collar of his sweater; and after he comes in, his first thought is necessarily of donning street clothes. There is, in consequence, practically no sociability in rowing until the crews are selected and sent to the training-table. A disciple of Sartor Resartus would be very likely to conclude that, until American rowing adapts itself to the English costume, it must continue to be--except for the fortunate few--the bare, unkindly sport it has always been. All this time I have had you seated in an armchair beside the sea-coal fire. Now an eightsman comes into the barge with two deep-breathing freshmen, and nods us to follow him to the boat the three have just quitted. On a chair by the door as we go out are several pads, consisting of a rubber cloth faced with wool. These are _spongeo pilenes_, or so I was told, which in English are known as Pontius Pilates--or Pontiuses for short. The eightsman will advise you to take a Pontius to protect your white flannel shorts from the water on the seat; for there is always a shower threatening, unless indeed it is raining. Every one knows, however, including the eightsman, that the wool is a no less important part of the Pontius than the rubber: it will save you many painful impressions of the dinner form in hall. We are already on the river, and pair-oars, fours, and eights are swarming about us. "Come forward," cries our coach, "ready--paddle!" and we take our place in the procession of craft that move in one another's wake down the narrow river. The coach talks pleasantly to us from time to time, and in the course of an afternoon we get a pretty good idea of what the English stroke consists in. The sun bursts through the pearl-gray clouds, and glows in golden ponds on the dense verdure of grass and trees. "Eyes in the boat," shouts the stern voice of conscience; but the coach says, "See, fellows. Here's a 'varsity trial eight. Watch them row, and you will see what the stroke looks like. Those fellows in red caps belong to the Leander."