A father feels more pride in his son’s talents as a boxer or rower, than in his literary success at Oxford or Cambridge. Amongst us, the newspapers write lengthily about the great competitions, but completely neglect to inform us of the games of prisoner’s base which the young candidates may have previously waged in their respective colleges. In England, the _Times_ gives a short summary of the examinations at the end of the Oxford and Cambridge years; but as soon as the annual boat-race between the two universities draws near, its columns are freely opened to all details respecting it. For three months before the event takes place special reporters are employed to keep the English and colonial populations acquainted with the most minute particulars respecting the rowers’ health. They begin by quoting the men’s weights; the special rules that the trainers impose upon each of them are carefully explained. One fine morning, England learns with consternation that Jones, the stroke of one of the boats, has awakened with a slight headache; but on the morrow a relieved sigh escapes from thirty million breasts on reading the assurance that judicious purging has cured Jones’s headache. These customs, which seem so strange to us, have certainly their good side. A young Englishman of sixteen or seventeen is intellectually one of the most prodigious dunces in creation. If one is absolutely determined to make him talk, one can induce him easily enough to relate every detail of the fine boxing match between Jack Thompson and Dick Harris, or he will even explain to you, and very clearly, the rules he followed in order to lose five pounds of his weight in one week, and beat Tom Wilkinson racing. This is all you can get from him, and it is very wearisome. But I infinitely prefer the type to that of Chérubin de Beaumarchais, who, nevertheless, never existed, or that of Fanfan Benoîton, who, unfortunately, is only too common amongst us.