I venture to use in its comprehensive sense the term “Athletic Sports,” which for some unexplained reason is generally confined to running and leaping matches; and under this head I will conclude what I have to say upon the athletic tribe, of whom the rowing man is the typical representative.

I was standing at the Oxford and Cambridge sports, partially sheltered by a corner of the pavilion from the pelting of the pitiless snowstorm, admiring the efforts of the bare-legged, bare-armed, and all but bare-backed University athletes. My feet were imbedded in a freezing mixture of mud and melting snow; my nose assumed a bright purple hue, and was the most prominent object in my field of vision. Beyond it I dimly caught sight through the snow-flakes of wild figures careering at intervals across the field, or heaving weights, jumping bars, and throwing cricket-balls. Here, I thought, is a fine chance for composing a poetical peroration on muscular Christianity. My ideas naturally took the form of a sermon; the text was the dogma attributed to the devotees of the sect whose strange rites I was contemplating; namely, that a man's whole duty was to fear God, and walk 1,000 miles in 1,000 hours; my discourse was, I believe, divided into the orthodox three heads: first, that such an athlete was, of necessity, a true man; secondly, that he was a true University man; and, thirdly, that he was a true Christian.