Latin School of Chicago - Sigillum Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

Page 43 text:

SIGILLUM Now to a coxswain life must be glorious, for think how it thrills him to crouch way back in that narrow seat of his, a few inc es off the water, eight sturdy lads in front rowing him along, and all he has to do is watch their blades paternally and suggest improve- ments. Is this not a pleasant way to spend an afternoon? Aye! a pharaoh was never rowed more royally down the Nile. The boat of a pharaoh was a heavy, most unwieldy thing, whereas this sixty- one foot shell of not three hundred pounds,-here is a delicate contrivanceg a sensitive, an almost living body. This body the little coxswain rules. And he loves to hear the Hthrrumpll' when eight long oars shoot from the water, leaving whirling pools of white behind, to bellow out HCATCH! STROKEIU, if some poor wherry lies ahead, and then to watch it flounder out of danger. He even ponders the abundant food he might well provide the Charles, if only a notion seized him to spear things at his will. Moreover, how distinguished he must feel when riding beneath an arch, or past a float, or anywhere that there be lookers-on. For on such occasions will the crew always row smartly Without goading on his part. What intuition quickens his men to top-hole efforts ?A For- sooth the blessed bunkv in each of them inspires a noble piece of rowing,-when other eyes are on them. Little wonder that with these manifold entertainments, a cox will smash into a bridge, and have coaches at the top of their lungs suggest unpleasant things,- eloquent, unfinished ejaculations which leave him in a quandary. Heigh-ho! 'tis all in a day's paddle. A goodly sight indeed to watch the crews return when dark- ness has come down upon the river, and lights blink from bridge, from boat-house float-as in a work from Pennel. Crews in the distance seem blurred objects moving slowly on the face of the water. A beam of light may show a momentary silhouette of oars- men, and that is-all. But on the boat-house float, what weird mingling of long shells borne by their crews up toward the racks, of running managers with lanterns, of men who carry in the oars across their broad shoulders, of coaches yelling to direct the shells that wait their turn out in the dark. Then when a coxswain gets his chance to approach, has guided the boat forward alongside the float,-the rowers hurry to have showers and be done. And so they leap out of the shell and, struggling, toss it high over their heads. Water drenches down on them, and all tread gingerly on the wet boards. Though socks are wringing wet, the crew laugh and make way for other crews of the line. Certainly a Rembrandt should be granted to our time, that he may paint in feeble lantern- glows and blended umber,-a coach or two with yellow, flashing oilskilg and youths with flashing, rounded limbs!

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Crew And The Charles J. BELFORT KEOGH J. Belfort Keogh, 719, Harvard '23, editor of Folio while at Latin, at present in the State Department. This article is reprinted from THE HARVARD ADVOCATE with which he was associated. LLURING to the eye Crew looms up in our world of sport. And whenever oarsmen contend manfully in a race, then the spectators can find no small delight in the fine skill of parts, en- during strength, and rhythm of the whole which they display. Yet the rowing life has more stuff in't than this racing business. Here is the Charles which flows beneath the quaint or stately bridges of its course, winds down to the broad basin of a metropolis,- there to enter an arena of grand promenade, church, and high- domed structure. And when the time brings on the oarsmen, this little quarter of the world-this quarter sacred to Rowing-starts alive with youthful forms. Among the first-crew men are splendid types: most of them tall, lusty fellows with a good coxswain to guide the boat. Now whether the little steersman,s voice be low-rumbling or high-piping, they row his commands with silence and despatch. These are real oarsmen, after all, who appreciate the value of system. Their coxswain never hesitates: he orders, pilots his crew with confidence a general might acclaim. So these seem flawless oarsmen, they work as one. Oars catch in, sweep through, and finish out together. There is but one quick rounded wrist-play of them all, but one long leaning of shoulders back and forth. Like a swift muskellunge their shell moves augustly,-with lesser fry giving way. Thus row the gods of Rowing! And though coaches may find them imperfect, it is not seemly for others to do likewise. Sometimes in March a crew is out when rain, mist, and hail descend. Then objects loom up indistinct, then factory, bridge, and river-bend take on the poetry of gray. The hail comes down aslant the backs of the rowers, and beats in the coXswain's face. The fingers of the oarsrnen are benumbed, their palms alone feel contact with the oars. In one hand the steersman grips wet rudder- lines . . . what wretched things to handle when coated with ice! . . . and with the other hand shields his eyes against the cutting hail, peers forward to mark the obscure turn, and calls out common- place mistakes he never sees. The wind jerks at his rnegaphoneg the hail and rain wet his lips,-muffle his voice. Nevertheless, shouting through his teeth, he keeps the spirit of the crew vigorous. The boat moves strangely on .... And if a savage of the Amazon could have a glimpse of that long phantom as it stabs swiftly through the mist, then would his heart shudder within him because some unknown ghoul of the river had sprung up into life.

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