Engraved by C.H. Jeens from a Picture by G.F. Watts.

MEMOIR OF A BROTHER.

BY
THOMAS HUGHES,
AUTHOR OF “TOM BROWN’S SCHOOLDAYS.”

BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.
1873.

AUTHOR’S EDITION.

PREFACE.

This Memoir was written for, and at the request of, the near relatives, and intimate friends, of the home-loving country gentleman, whose unlooked-for death had made them all mourners indeed. Had it been meant originally for publication, it would have taken a very different form. In compiling it, my whole thoughts were fixed on my own sons and nephews, and not on the public. It tells of a life with which indeed the public has no concern in one sense; for my brother, with all his ability and power of different kinds, was one of the humblest and most retiring of men; who just did his own duty, and held his own tongue, without the slightest effort or wish for fame or notoriety of any kind. In another sense, however, I do see that it has a meaning and interest for Englishmen in general, and have therefore consented to its publication in the usual way, though not without a sense of discomfort and annoyance at having the veil even partially lifted from the intimacies of a private family circle. For, in a noisy and confused time like ours, it does seem to me that most of us have need to be reminded of, and will be the better for bearing in mind, the reserve of strength and power which lies quietly at the nation’s call, outside the whirl and din of public and fashionable life, and entirely ignored in the columns of the daily press. The subject of this memoir was only a good specimen of thousands of Englishmen of high culture, high courage, high principle, who are living their own quiet lives in every corner of the kingdom, from John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s-End, bringing up their families in the love of God and their neighbour, and keeping the atmosphere around them clean, and pure and strong, by their example,—men who would come to the front, and might be relied on, in any serious national crisis.

One is too apt to fancy, from the photographs of the nation’s life which one gets day by day, that the old ship has lost the ballast which has stood her in such good stead for a thousand years, and is rolling more and more helplessly, in a gale which shows no sign of abating, for her or any other national vessel, until at last she must roll over and founder. But it is not so. England is in less stress, and in better trim, than she has been in in many a stiffer gale.

The real fact is, that nations, and the families of which nations are composed, make no parade or fuss over that part of their affairs which is going right. National life depends on home life, and foreign critics are inclined to take the chronicles of our Divorce Court as a test by which to judge the standard of our home life, like the old gentleman who always spelt through the police reports to see “what the people were about.” An acquaintance, however, with any average English neighbourhood, or any dozen English families taken at random, ought to be sufficient to reassure the faint-hearted, and to satisfy them that (to use the good old formula) the Lord has much work yet for this nation to do, and the nation manliness and godliness enough left to do it all, notwithstanding superficial appearances.

A life without sensation or incident may therefore well form a more useful subject of study in such a time, than the most exciting narrative of adventure and success, the conditions being, that it shall have been truly lived, and faithfully told. Readers will judge for themselves whether the former condition has been fulfilled in this case: I wish I could feel the same confidence as to the latter. I can only say I have done my best.

T. H.

Dedication.

TO MY NEPHEWS AND SONS.

My dear Boys,

It has pleased God to take to Himself the head of the family of which you are members. Most of you are too young to enter into the full meaning of those words “family” and “membership,” but you all remember with sore hearts, and the deepest feeling of love and reverence, the gentle, strong, brave man, whom you used to call father or uncle; and who had that wonderful delight in, and attraction for, young folk, which most very gentle and brave men have. You are conscious, I know, that a great cold chasm has suddenly opened in your lives—that strength and help has gone away from you, to which you knew you might turn in any of the troubles which boys, and very young men, feel so keenly. Well, I am glad that you feel that it is so: I should not have much hope of you if it were otherwise. The chasm will close up, and you will learn, I trust and pray, where to go for strength and help, in this and all other troubles.

It is very little that I can do for you. Probably you can do more for me; and my need is even sorer than yours. But what I can do I will. Several of you have asked me questions about your father and uncle, what we used to do, and think and talk about, when he and I were boys together. Well, no one can answer these questions better than I, for we were as nearly of an age as brothers can be—I was only thirteen months younger—and we were companions from our childhood. We went together to our first school, when I was nearly eight and he nine years old; and then on to Rugby together; and were never separated for more than a week until he went to Oxford, where I followed a year later. For the first part of my time there, in college, we lived in the same rooms, always on the same staircase; and afterwards in the same lodgings. From that time to the day of his death we lived in the most constant intimacy and affection. Looking back over all those years, I can call to mind no single unkind, or unworthy, or untruthful, act or word of his; and amongst all the good influences for which I have to be thankful, I reckon the constant presence and example of his brave, generous, and manly life as one of the most powerful and ennobling. If I can in any measure reproduce it for you, I know that I shall be doing you a good service; and helping you, in even more difficult times than those in which we grew up, to quit yourselves as brave and true English boys and Englishmen, in whatever work or station God may be pleased to call you to.

You have all been taught to look to one life as your model, and to turn to Him who lived it on our earth, as to the guide, and friend, and helper, who alone can strengthen the feeble knees, and lift up the fainting heart. Just in so far as you cleave to that teaching, and follow that life, will you live your own faithfully. If I were not sure that what I am going to try to do for you would help to turn you more trustfully and lovingly to that source of all truth, all strength, all light, be sure I would not have undertaken it. As it is, I know it will be my fault if it does not do this.

THOMAS HUGHES.

CONTENTS.

MEMOIR OF A BROTHER.

CHAPTER I.
FIRST YEARS.

My brother was born on the 18th of September, 1821 at Uffington, in Berkshire, of which your great-grandfather was vicar. Uffington was then a very primitive village, far away from any high road, and seven miles from Wantage, the nearest town from which a coach ran to London. There were very few neighbours, the roads were almost impassable for carriages in the winter, and the living was a poor one; but your great-grandfather (who was a Canon of St. Paul’s) had exchanged a much richer living for it, because his wife had been born there, and was deeply attached to the place. Three George Watts’s had been vicars of Uffington, in direct succession from father to son, and she was the daughter of the last of them. So your grandfather, who was their only child, came to live in the village on his marriage, in an old farmhouse close to the church, to which your grandfather added some rooms, so as to make it habitable. If you should ever make a pilgrimage to the place, you will not find the house, for it has been pulled down; but the grand old church is there, and White Horse Hill, rising just behind the village, just as they were half a century ago, when we first looked at them. We could see the church from our bed-room window, and the hill from our nursery, a queer upper room amongst the rafters, at the top of the old part of the house, with a dark closet in one corner, into which the nurses used to put us when we were more unruly than usual. Here we lived till your great-grandfather’s death, thirteen years later, when your grandfather removed to his house at Donnington.

The memories of our early childhood and boyhood throng upon me, so that I scarcely know where to begin, or what to leave out. I cannot, however, I am sure, go wrong in telling you, how I became first aware of a great difference between us, and of the effect the discovery had on me. In the spring of 1828, when he was seven and I six years old, our father and mother were away from home for a few days. We were, playing together in the garden, when the footman came up to us, the old single-barrelled gun over his shoulder which the gardener had for driving away birds from the strawberries, and asked us whether we shouldn’t like to go rook-shooting. We jumped at the offer, and trotted along by his side to the rookery, some 300 yards from the house. As we came up we saw a small group of our friends under the trees—the groom, the village schoolmaster, and a farmer or two—and started forwards to greet them. Just before we got to the trees, some of them began firing up at the young rooks. I remember, even now, the sudden sense of startled fear which came over me. My brother ran in at once under the trees, and was soon carrying about the powder-horn from one to another of the shooters. I tried to force myself to go up, but could not manage it. Presently he ran out to me, to get me to go back with him, but in vain. I could not overcome my first impression, and kept hovering round, at a distance of thirty or forty yards, until it was time for us to go back; ashamed of myself, and wondering in my small mind why it was that he could go in amongst that horrible flashing and smoke, and the din of firing, and cawing rooks, and falling birds, and I could not.

I had encountered the same puzzle in other ways already. Some time before my father had bought a small Shetland pony for us, Moggy by name, upon which we were to complete our own education in riding. We had already mastered the rudiments, under the care of our grandfather’s coachman. He had been in our family thirty years, and we were as fond of him as if he had been a relation. He had taught us to sit up and hold the bridle, while he led a quiet old cob up and down with a leading rein. But, now that Moggy was come, we were to make quite a new step in horsemanship. Our parents had a theory that boys must teach themselves, and that a saddle (except for propriety, when we rode to a neighbour’s house to carry a message, or had to appear otherwise in public) was a hindrance rather than a help. So, after our morning’s lessons, the coachman used to take us to the paddock in which Moggy lived, put her bridle on, and leave us to our own devices. I could see that that moment was, from the first, one of keen enjoyment to my brother. He would scramble up on her back, while she went on grazing—without caring to bring her to the elm stool in the corner of the field, which was our mounting place—pull her head up, kick his heels into her sides, and go scampering away round the paddock with the keenest delight. He was Moggy’s master from the first day, though she not unfrequently managed to get rid of him by sharp turns, or stopping dead short in her gallop. She knew it quite well; and, just as well, that she was mistress as soon as I was on her back. For weeks it never came to my turn without my wishing myself anywhere else. George would give me a lift up, and start her. She would trot a few yards, and then begin grazing, notwithstanding my timid expostulations, and gentle pullings at her bridle. Then he would run up, and pull up her head, and start her again, and she would bolt off with a flirt of her head, and never be content till I was safely on the grass. The moment that was effected she took to grazing again, and I believe enjoyed the whole performance as much as George, and certainly far more than I did. We always brought her a carrot, or bit of sugar, in our pockets, and she was much more like a great good-tempered dog with us than a pony.

Our first hunting experience now came off. Some staghounds—the King’s, if I remember rightly—came down for a day or two’s sport in our part of Berkshire, and a deer was to be turned out on the downs, a few miles from our house. Accordingly the coachman was to take us both. I was to go before him on one of the carriage horses, made safe by leather strap which encircled us both, while George rode Moggy. He was anxious to go unattached, but on the whole it was considered better that the coachman should hold a leading rein, as no one knew how Moggy might behave with the dogs, and no one but I knew how completely she would have to do as he chose. We arrived safely at the meet, saw the deer uncarted, the hounds laid on, and lumbered slowly after, till they swept away over a rise in the downs, and we saw them no more. So, after riding about for some time, the coachman produced some bread and cheese from his pocket, and we dismounted, and hitched up horse and pony on the leeward side of an old barn. We had not finished our lunch, when suddenly, to our intense delight, the stag cantered by within twenty yards of us, and, by the time we were on horseback again, the hunt followed. This time George and Moggy made the most desperate efforts for freedom, but the coachman managed to keep them in tow, and so the hunt went away from us again. I believe it was in consequence of George’s remonstrances when he got home that it was now settled he should be allowed to go to the next meet of the foxhounds in our neighbourhood without a leading rein. This is his account of that great event, in a letter to his grandmother, almost the first he ever wrote. Those of you who have been brought up in the country will see how respectfully he always treats the fox, always giving him a capital F when he mentions him.

“Uffington.

“Dear Grandmama,

“Your little dog Mustard sometimes teases the hawk by barking at him, and sometimes the hawk flies at Mustard. I have been out hunting upon our black pony, Moggy, and saw the Fox break cover, and the hounds follow after him. I rode fifteen miles. Papa brought me home the Fox’s lug. I went up a great hill to see the hounds drive the Fox out of the wood. I saw Ashdown Park House: there is a fine brass nob at the top of it. Tom and I send best love to you and grandpapa.

“I am, your affectionate grandson,

“George Hughes.”

On this first occasion, as you may see by the letter, your grandfather was out with him, and he had not been allowed to follow. But soon afterwards his great triumph occurred, at a meet to which he and Moggy went off one morning after breakfast, in the wildest spirits. Your grandfather did not go out that day; so one of the farmers who happened to be going was to give an eye to Master George, and see that he got into no trouble, and found his way home. This he did about three o’clock in the afternoon, bearing the brush in his hand, with his face all covered with blood, after the barbarous custom of those days. He had been in at the death; and the honest farmer recounted to us in the broadest Berkshire the wonders which he and Moggy had performed together; creeping through impossible holes in great fences, scrambling along ditches and up banks to the finish, when he had been singled out from outside the ring of horsemen and led up to the master, the late Lord Ducie, to be “blooded” by the huntsman, and receive the brush, the highest honour the boy foxhunter can achieve.

And so it was with all our games and exercises, whether we were at football, wrestling, climbing, single-stick (which latter we were only allowed to practise in the presence of an old cavalry pensioner, who had served at Waterloo). He seemed to lay hold of whatever he put his hand to by the right end, and so the secret of it delivered itself up to him at once. One often meets with people who seem as if they had been born into the world with two left hands, and two left feet, and rarely with a few who have two right hands; and of these latter he was as striking an example as I have ever known. Often as a boy, and much oftener since, I have thought over this gift, trying to make out where the secret lay. For, though never very ambitious myself, I was more so than he was, and had the greatest wish to do every exercise and game as well as I possibly could; and by dint of real hard work, and years of practice, I did manage, in one or two instances, to reach the point which he had attained almost as it were by instinct. But I never could get nearer to his secret than this, that it lay in a sort of unconsciousness, which I believe to be natural courage. What I mean is, that what might possibly happen to himself never seemed to cross his mind: that he might get a fall and hurt himself, for instance, or get his head or his shins broken, or the like. And so, not being disturbed by any such considerations about himself, he had nothing to hinder him from just falling at once into the very best way of doing whatever he took in hand. Of course, even then, it required a fine body, as I have known boys and men, of equal natural courage, who were awkward and slow because they were very clumsily put together. But, on the other hand, I have known many men with equally fine bodies who never could get any decent work out of them. Now, with all the thinking in the world about it, I never could have acquired this natural gift; but, by having an example of it constantly before my eyes, I got the next best thing, which was a scorn of myself for feeling fear. This by degrees hardened into the habit of doing what I saw him do, and so I managed to pass through school and college without betraying the timidity of which I was ashamed.

Why do I make the confession now to you? Because I see the same differences in you that there were in us. One or two of you are naturally courageous, and the rest as naturally timid as I was. The first I hope will always bear with the others, and help them, as my brother helped me. If he had twitted me because I could not come under the trees at the rook-shooting, or because I was afraid of Moggy, I should probably never have felt the shame, or made the exertion, necessary to overcome my natural timidity. And to you who are not naturally courageous, I would say, make the effort to conquer your fear at once; you can’t begin too early, and will never be worth much till you have made it.

But there was another natural difference between us which deserves a few words, as it will bring out his character more clearly to you; and that was, that he was remarkably quiet and reserved, and shy with strangers, and I the reverse. When we came down to dessert, after a dinner party, and had to stand by our father’s side (as the custom was then in our parts), and say to each guest in turn, “Your good health, Sir, or Madam,” while we sipped a little sweet wine and water, the ceremony was a torture to him; while to me it was quite indifferent, and I was only running my eye over the dishes, and thinking which I should choose when it came to my turn. In looking over his earliest letters, I find in one, written to his mother a few weeks after we first went to school, this passage: “We are both very well and happy. I find that I like Tom better at school than I do at home, and yet I do not know the reason.” I was surprised for a moment when I came on this sentence. Of course, if love is genuine, the longer people know each other, the deeper it becomes; and therefore our friendship, like all others, grew richer and deeper as we got older. But this was the first time I ever had an idea that his feelings towards me changed after we went to school. I am not sure that I can give the reason any more than he could; but, on thinking it over, I daresay it had something to do with this difference I am speaking of.

I remember an old yeoman, a playfellow of our father’s, who lived in a grey gabled house of his own at the end of the village in those days, and with whom we used to spend a good deal of our spare time, saying to a lady, about her sons, “Bring ’em up sarcy (saucy), Marm! I likes to see bwoys brought up sarcy.” I have no doubt that he, and others, used to cultivate my natural gift of sauciness, and lead me on to give flippant answers, and talk nonsense. In fact, I can quite remember occasions of the kind, and George’s quiet steady look at them, as he thought, no doubt, “What a fool my brother is making of himself, and what a shame of you to encourage him!” Apart altogether from his shyness, he had too much self-command and courtesy himself to run into any danger of this kind.

Now, the moment we got to school, my sauciness abated very rapidly on the one hand, and, on the other, I became much more consciously beholden to him. We had scarcely been there a week when the first crisis occurred which made us both aware of this fact. My form had a lesson in early Greek History to get up, in which a part of the information communicated was, that Cadmus was the first man who “carried letters from Asia to Greece.” When we came to be examined, the master asked us, “What was Cadmus?” This way of putting it puzzled us all for a moment or two, when suddenly the words “carried letters” came into my head, and, remembering the man with the leather bag who used to bring my father’s papers and letters, and our marbles and whipcord, from Farringdon, I shouted, “A postman, Sir.” The master looked very angry for a moment, but, seeing my perfect good faith, and that I had jumped up expecting to go to the head of the form, he burst out laughing. Of course all the boys joined in, and when school was over I was christened Cadmus. That I probably should not have minded, but it soon shortened into “Cad,” at which all the blood in my eight-year-old veins was on fire. The more angry I was, the more some of the boys persecuted me with the hateful name; especially one stupid big fellow of twelve or so, who ought to have been two forms higher, and revenged himself for his place amongst us little ones by making our small lives as miserable as he could. A day or two after, with two or three boys for audience, he had got me in a corner of the playground, into which he kept thrusting me violently back, calling me “Cad, Cad,” while I was ready to fly at his throat and kill him. Suddenly we heard a step tearing down the gravel walk, and George, in his shirt sleeves, fresh from a game of rounders, rushed into the circle, and sent my tyrant staggering back with a blow in the chest, and then faced him with clenched fists, and a blaze in his eye, which I never saw there more than two or three times. I don’t think many boys, or men, would have liked to face him when it was there. At any rate my persecutor didn’t, though he must have been a stone heavier, and much stronger. So he slunk off, muttering to himself, to the disgust of the boys who hoped for a row, and I strutted out of my corner, while George went back to his rounders, after looking round and saying, “Just let me hear any of you call my brother ‘Cad’ again.” I don’t think I ever heard that nickname again at our first school, and it must have been very shortly after that he wrote home, “I find I like Tom better at school than I do at home, and yet I do not know the reason.” The strongest and most generous natures are always fondest of those who lean on them.

But I am getting on faster than I intended. We have not quite got away from home yet. And now let me turn again to my story. You will, I am sure, be interested by the following letter, which was written to us by Miss Edgeworth. You probably have never read her books; but in our day, when there were very few children’s books, they were our great delight, and almost the only ones we possessed, after “Robinson Crusoe,” “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” and “Sandford and Merton.” I forget how we discovered that the lady who wrote “Frank and Rosamond” was really alive, and that our grandmother actually had met her, and knew her. But, having made the discovery; we laid our heads together, and wrote two letters, asking her to tell us what were the contents of the remaining drawers in the wonderful Indian cabinet. Our grandmother sent her the letters, and in due time we received the following reply:—

“Edgeworth’s Town, July 20th, 1828.

“To my dear young readers, George and Thomas Hughes.

“I am glad that you can write as well as read; your two letters were both very well written, and I had pleasure in reading them. I am glad that you like Harry and Lucy and Frank and Rosamond. I wish I could tell you anything more that would entertain you about the other nine drawers of the India cabinet; but what I am going to tell you will disappoint you I daresay, and I cannot help it. When Rosamond opened the 4th drawer she found in it—nothing—but a sheet of white paper at the bottom of the drawer, and on the paper was written only the word China. The writing was in a large round hand, like that in which your letter to me was written. Rosamond shut this drawer and opened the next, which was the 5th—empty! On the paper at the bottom of this drawer, in the same handwriting, was Constantinople. The 6th, the 7th, the 8th which she opened, one after another as fast as she could, were all empty! On the paper in the 6th drawer, which was very deep, was written—The North Pole and Iceland—Norway—Sweden and Lapland. In the 8th drawer was written Rome and Naples—Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii. At the bottom of the 9th drawer, Persia—Arabia and India.

“Then on the paper in the 9th drawer was written in small-hand and cramped writing without lines, and as crookedly as might be expected from a first attempt without lines, what follows:—

“‘I, little Matt, (which is short for Matthew), promise my dear good kindest of all aunts, Aunt Egerton, whom I love best in the world, that when I am grown up quite to be a great man, and when I go upon my travels as I intend to do when I am old enough and have money enough, I will bring her home all the greatest curiosities I can find for her in every country for these drawers. I have written in them the names of the countries I intend to visit, therefore I beg my dear aunt will never put anything in these 9 drawers till my curiosities come home. I will unpack them myself. N. B.—I have begun this morning to make a list from my book of travels and voyages of all the curiosities I think worthy my bringing home for the India cabinet.’ (M. E.—A true copy.)

“My dear young readers, this is all I know about the matter. I am sorry I can tell you no more; but to no one else have I ever told so much. This letter is all for yourselves—from one who would like to see you very much, and who hopes that you would like her too if you knew her, though you might not like her at first sight; for she is neither young nor pretty, but an old good-natured friend,

(Signed) “Maria Edgeworth.”

In the winter, before we went to school first, we were left alone at home, for the first time, while our parents paid some visits. George was left in charge of the house (under the governess), with injunctions to see that all things went on regularly in the village. Our mother’s Saturday clothing club was to be held as usual, and we were not to neglect either the poor, or the birds, who were fed daily through the winter on a table on the lawn, just outside the dining-room window. The following letter will show you how conscientiously the trust was fulfilled:—

“January 21st, 1830.

“Dear Mama,

“We are all well, and quite free from colds. All the people brought their money correctly last Saturday. Tims had his chimney began more than a week ago, and no doubt it is finished by this time. I have told cook about making broth and gruel for any who are sick. We constantly feed all your birds, and they eat as much as would give baby two meals. We shall be glad to see you and Papa.

“I am, your dutiful son,

“George Hughes.”

One other letter I will give to amuse you. You elder boys will say, that if he hadn’t learnt to answer questions better when he went to school, he would never have taken a high degree at Oxford:—

“January 26th, 1830.

“My dear Mama,

“We thank you for the conundrums you sent us, and I think we have found out two of them:—‘If all the letters were asked out to dinner, which of them would not go?’ The one that asked them would not go. ‘What thing is that which lights the eyes, yet never fails to blind?’ The sun. You must tell us when you write whether these are right or not. We cannot find out the other one. Give my love to papa, and tell him that I will write to him next week. We shall be delighted to see you home again. I think I am going on well with my Latin, and I hope Papa will be satisfied with me.

“I am, your affectionate son,

“George Hughes.”

We went to school together, in the autumn of this year, at Twyford, near Winchester. On the way there we stayed a few days at Lyndhurst, in the New Forest, at the house of an old naval officer. He had another house near us in Berkshire, our favourite resort, as there were several little girls in the family of our own age, all very pretty. One of these little ladies took a fancy to some water-flower, as we were walking in the forest, the day before the school met. Without saying a word, George just jumped into the pond, and fetched it for her; thereby ruining a new suit of clothes (as your grandmother remarked) and risking his life, for there was no one but a nurse with us, and it was just as likely that the pond might be out of his depth as not. However, as it happened, no harm came of it, and we went on next day to Twyford.

CHAPTER II.
RUGBY.

We stayed at Twyford till the end of 1833, when our father resolved to send us to Rugby. Dr. Arnold had been a little his junior at Oriel; and, though considerably exercised by the Doctor’s politics, he shared that unhesitating faith in his character and ability which seems to have inspired all his contemporaries. In the meantime George had gone up rapidly into the highest form at Twyford, amongst boys two years older than himself, and generally carried off not only prizes for the school work but for all kinds of gymnastics. Twyford was a little before its time in this respect, as we had quite a number of gymnastic poles of different kinds in the playground, upon which we had regular lessons under a master who came over from Winchester. Every half-year we had a gymnastic examination, attended by the master’s daughters, and a lady or two from the neighbourhood, who distributed the prizes (plates of fruit and cake) at the end of the day to the successful boys. One special occasion I well remember, in which the excitement ran particularly high. A new prize for vaulting was to be given, not for the common style “which any boy could do,” our master said; but for vaulting between the hands. I don’t want any of you to try it, for it is a dangerous exercise, and I wonder that some of us did not break our necks in attempting it. You had to place both your hands on the back of the vaulting horse, as far apart, or as near together, as you liked, and then spring over between them without lifting either, even for half an inch. Of course none but long-armed boys could do it at all; but there were enough of these for a large entry. Very soon, however, one after another fell out, either for touching with their feet, or shifting a hand during the vault; and George and a very active boy, a great friend of ours in after years, Charles Mansfield by name, were left alone. They two went on springing over the horse, without the least touch of foot or shifting of hand, until it was at last voted by acclamation that they should divide the great plate of grapes, apples, and sponge cakes, which stood ready for the winner.

But I must not tell you so much of all his successes in athletic games. These things are made too much of nowadays, until the training and competitions for them outrun all rational bounds. What I want to show you is, that while he was far more distinguished in these than any of you are at all likely to be (or indeed, as things stand, than I for one should wish you to be), he never neglected the real purpose of a schoolboy’s life for them, as you will see from some of his early letters from Rugby to which school we went in February 1834, when he was only twelve years old. These are all addressed to his father and mother, and generally end, “Please consider this for grandmama as well as for yourselves.” No boy was ever more thoughtful of every one who had any possible claim upon him. Here is almost the first of them.

“Rugby, April 25th, 1834.

“My dear Papa and Mama,

“I received your letter to-day. I have got a little cough now, but it is getting better every day. Tom is quite well. I now generally keep among the four first of my form, and I find that by application you are enabled to do yourself greater credit than if you trust yourself to the assistance of books or that of other boys. There are two boys besides myself who always do our work together, and we always take three-quarters of an hour out of school, besides three-quarters which is allowed us in school, to prepare our work. The work of our form is the Eumenides of Æschylus, Homer, Virgil, Horace, and Cicero’s Epistles. The half year is divided into two quarters, one of which is for classics mostly, and the other for history. The books for the next quarter are Arrian’s Expedition of Alexander, and Paterculus’s History of Rome, and Mackintosh’s English History. For Composition we do Greek Iambics and Latin Verse, which is generally taken from some English author, and we translate it into Latin. We also do English and Latin themes once a week. The Easter business is just over; there were three speech days, the rehearsal (or first day), the day on which the poor people are allowed to come, and the grand day. On the grand day the day was very fine, and there was a very large assembly of people. The speeches and prize compositions and poems were—

Sixth Form.

• Lake.[1]—Latin essay: Bellum civile Mariannum.
• Lake.—Latin verse: Phœnicia.
• Clough.[2]—English essay: The English language.
• Clough.—English verse: Close of eighteenth century.
• Arnold.[3]—Greek verse: The murder of Becket.

Fifth Form Essay.

• Jacson.—On the Sources of Pleasure.
• Emeris.—Speech of Canning at Lisbon.
• Simpkin.—Conclusion of Warren Hastings’ trial.

“The speeches began at one o’clock; they were ended at three, and about 200 went to dine at the ‘Spread Eagle.’ Here Dr. Arnold gained a complete triumph over Litchfield and Boughton Leigh, who wanted to prevent his health being drunk on account of his politics, or their private malice. I have not much more to say now. Give my love to cousins, uncle, grandmama, and everybody.

“I remain, your affectionate Son,

“G. E. Hughes.”

[1] Now Dean of Durham.

[2] A. H. Clough, the poet.

[3] The Rev. C. Arnold, of Rugby.

He writes home of everything, in these first years, except of what he knew would only give pain, and be quite useless—the exceedingly rough side of school life as it then existed. A small boy might be, and very frequently was, fagged for every moment of his play hours day after day; and there was a good deal of a bad kind of bullying. But these things he took as a matter of course, making the best of what was inevitable. He used often afterwards to declare, that the boys of that generation made the best fields at cricket he had ever seen, and to set it down to the unmerciful amount of fagging they had to go through. Escape out of bounds before you were caught by a sixth form boy, was the only remedy; and, once out of bounds, there was the river for amusement, and the railway, upon which large gangs of navigators had just been put to work. George became a skilful fisherman, and a most interested watcher of the earthworks, and duly chronicles how he has caught a big eel in one letter; in another, how “the railway is going on very fast: they have nearly filled up one valley, and carried it over a stream;” in a third how “Mr. Wombwell’s show of wild beasts has come in, I believe the finest in England,” and including “four elephants, a black tiger and tigress, and two lions, one of which was the famous Wallace who fought the dogs.”

Before the end of the second year he had got through three forms, and was nearly the head of the fags, and anxious to try his hand for the single scholarship, which was then offered at Rugby for boys under fourteen. As there was only one, of course the competition was a very severe one. But his first letter of that year contains a passage too characteristic to pass over. So I must leave the scholarship for a moment. We, with other boys who lived in Berkshire and Hampshire, were often obliged to post, or hire a coach to ourselves, as there was only one regular coach a day on those cross-country roads. We used to make up parties accordingly, and appoint one boy to manage the whole business, who had rather a hard time of it, while all the rest enjoyed themselves in the most uproarious manner. George was soon selected as the victim, and bearer of the common purse; and his conscientious struggles with postboys and hostlers, landlords and waiters, cost him, I am sure, more pain and anxiety than all the scholarship examinations he ever went in for. Thus he writes in February 1836, to tell of our safe arrival, and then goes on:—

“We had just enough money to pay our journey. The worst of it is, that every postboy, when they see that they are driving boys, at the end of the stage, when you pay them their money, are never contented, and say, ‘never given less than so and so;’ and, ‘shall be kept up all night;’ ‘roads bad,’ &c. &c., and keep on bothering you till you really don’t know what to do. However, that is over now, and we are fairly settled again at Rugby, and very comfortable.”

And then, at the end of the half, when he has to begin arranging for the return journey, “the Doctor will not take any account of these plaguey postboys, and so always allows us too little journey money.”

“December 11th, 1836.—About our journey money; I do not think that Dr. Arnold gives us quite enough. I suppose he does not exactly know the distance we have to go. He only gives us 30s. each. I think you always give us 6l. (or 2l. apiece) to go there, which just takes us, including everything.”

We were always encouraged to bring our friends home, but how scrupulous he was about using the privilege the remainder of the letter just quoted will show you:—

“There is a boy who will go all the way home with us—G——. He is a præpostor. He is going as far as Newbury that day, where he is going to sleep, and go on in the Oxford coach to Winchester, where he stops. Would you think it any inconvenience to give him a bed? It is not, however, of the least consequence, only I think that being a stranger in those parts he would take it kindly, and be able to return the favour to Walter or Tom at Rugby. If you think it the least inconvenience pray tell me, for it does not signify one jot: I have not said a word to him on the subject yet. We begin to smell the approach of the holidays; the bills are being made up, the trunks brought down, the clothes cleaned, &c. &c. I shall take care to peep into the Museum on my road through Oxford, as I did not half satisfy my curiosity before. I am glad to hear that Dumple goes well in harness; also that the wild ducks “habitant in flumine nostro, quos ego, maxime gaudeo;” that Mr. Majendie has approved of my Lyric verses, which, however, I cannot think merit such commendation. There has been a great balloon mania in the school lately; everybody has been making a balloon. We set them off with spirits of wine lighted under them, and then run after them. They generally go about five miles, and we always recover them after a hard run. I have cut one out myself from tissue paper, and I will bring it home that I may have the pleasure of setting it off before Jenny. I think she would like to see it.”

But I am forgetting the scholarship.

“Rugby, March 16, 1836.

“I will now tell you what I was examined in for the scholarship; 1st, in composition, Latin theme; subject, ‘Est natura hominum novitatis avida,’ which, as you may imagine, was very easy; Latin verse, ‘The Battle of Thermopylæ;’ English theme, ‘Painting,’ also very easy. In the Latin verse I did seventeen verses in two hours, which was more than any other of the candidates, and I quite satisfied myself in the other two subjects. In Latin construing we had a passage from Virgil and Cæsar, and in Greek, Homer’s Odyssey. We were also examined in St. Paul, and, thanks to your abbreviation, I answered all the questions. We have yet to be examined in Mackintosh, French, and mathematics.

“I think now I have satisfied you with respect to the work of the scholarship.”

In his next of April 2nd, he communicates the result as follows, but not mentioning that six of his competitors were older than he, and in higher forms:—

“We are all quite well. I did not get the scholarship, but I was third. I have been promoted out of the lower into the middle fifth, and I am doing very well in it. We read Demosthenes, Thucydides, Cicero in Verrem, and the Antigone of Sophocles. The great examination at the end of the half is soon going to be set. The middle fifth and upper fifth are examined together, and if I do well in it I may be high up in the fifth at the end of the half.”

He did well, as usual, and got into the fifth at the summer examination. Your grandmother had a small bookcase made on purpose for our prizes, which was being rapidly filled by George. He writes thus to her just before our holidays:—

“June 6th, 1836.—I have got some good news for you. I have got an addition to your rosewood bookcase, alias a prize! It’s called ‘Rickman’s Architecture.’ It is very nicely bound, and has some nice pictures of abbeys and churches, with a description of all the fine cathedrals and large churches, amongst which I saw our old Uffington church. Donnington Castle was also mentioned.”

On returning as a fifth form boy he describes the fifth form room, of which he is now free, with great delight, and reverence for its “two sofas, three tables, curtains, and large bookcase,” and adds—

“I have got a nice double study to myself, but I wish I had some more books, since I think that nothing makes a study look so nice as books. I must bring some to Rugby next half; I can take care of them now. I have lately been engaged in making an English verse translation of a chorus in the Eumenides, and I will give it you, if you think it worth while reading. I wish you would criticize it as much as you can. I know it is very imperfect, but as it is the first regular copy of English verse I ever did, I think it is pretty good for me. Here it is,” &c.

But I shall not copy it out for fear of tiring you, and indeed I feel that I must hurry over the rest of his school life. When every line and word is full of life and interest to oneself, it is perhaps hard to judge where to stop for the next generation. A few short extracts, however, from his letters during his last three years will, I think, interest you. At least some of the references will show you what a time of revolution you were born into. When we were your ages there was no railway between London and Birmingham: and in all other directions, and on all other sides of English life, the change seems to me quite as great as in this of locomotion.

“April 1837.—They are getting on very fast with the railroad, and I hear that it is to be finished in August. I intend going to-morrow to Kilsby to see a very large tunnel that they are making for the railroad there.

“There has been a row about fishing. Mr. Boughton Leigh’s keeper took away a rod from a fellow who was fishing in a part of the river that has always been given to the fellows to fish in, but which the keeper said was a preserve of Mr. Leigh’s. The fellows went in a body to Mr. Leigh’s house, but found he had gone to London; they are going to write a letter to him, asking the reason of taking the rod. The fellow who had his rod taken away has caught an immense quantity of pike, and this half he caught in one afternoon two, one 5 lbs., the other three.”

...

“June 1837.—I dare say you will be glad to hear that Stanley[4] has got the English verse; they say it is the best since Heber’s Palestine that has been written; some part of it was quoted in the ‘Standard.’ Vaughan[5] also has got the Porson’s Greek verse, and the Greek Ode and Epigrams.”

...

“September 1837.—There was a meeting at Rugby a little while ago, got up by some horrid Radicals, about paying Church rates, whether they should pay them or not: but there was a very large majority that they should pay them; although half the town are Dissenters, and another quarter Radicals.”

...

“November.—I suppose Tom has told you that I have been raised to the sixth form, and am now a præpostor. I do not find the work much harder than it was in the fifth. A Mr. Walker, philosophical lecturer, has just been here, and when he found the fellows would not come to his lectures, and heard that they were playing football, delivered himself of this elegant sentence, ‘Brutes, to prefer football to philosophy!’ which you may imagine caused a laugh, and did not at all further his object of procuring an audience. This same person afterwards caused an article to be put into the Northampton Herald complaining of the conduct of Dr. Arnold, in not allowing the boys to go without permission of their parents. Yesterday the school house, after a resistance of six days, were beaten; but it is not quite certain about whether it was a goal or not, and perhaps we shall play it again. The classing examination is just going to begin. I believe I am pretty well prepared. Clough has gone. Dr. Arnold has been away at London, at an examination of London University. Dr. Arnold’s two sons are now at Rugby, having left Winchester. I have changed my study, and have now a horribly dark place in the bottom passage, which it is the fate of the bottom præpostor in the house to have, but I shall leave it next half.”

...

“March 1838.—I write to tell you that I should like to write for one of the prizes, as I think it will be a good exercise for me; I have no particular choice, but I should prefer either the English prose, ‘On the increased facility of local communication, and its probable effects on society,’ or the Latin verse ‘On the abdication of Charles the Fifth;’ and I wish you would tell me which you think the best.

“The London and Birmingham Railroad has been opened from Rugby to Birmingham, and also from Stoney Stratford to London, but, in consequence of Kilsby tunnel falling in, it will not yet be opened the whole way: it is opened all the way now except thirty miles in the middle. I saw one of the trains go by yesterday for the first time in my life, and I was very much astonished.”

...

“June 1838.—Have you read Mr. Dickens’ ‘Nicholas Nickleby?’ I liked it very much, though I thought some parts of it are very much exaggerated and unnatural; particularly that about the school, if you have read it. I am sure no one could help laughing at it; but I think ‘Oliver Twist’ much superior.

“The Great London and Birmingham Railroad is to be opened throughout to-morrow week, I believe, so there will be no more coaches to bother us.”

[4] Now Dean of Westminster.

[5] Master of the Temple.

About this time a scribbling fever attacked the upper boys at Rugby. A year or two earlier the Rugby Magazine had gained considerable repute, from the publication of some of Clough’s early poems, and contributions by others of the Stanley and Vaughan generation; and had thus furnished a healthy local outlet for the literary secretions of the sixth form. But that journal was now no more, so we were thrown back on the periodicals of the outside world. To get a copy of verses, or a short article, into one of these, was looked upon as an heroic feat, like making fifty runs in a school match. And of all the magazines, and they were much fewer in those days, Bentley’s was the favourite; chiefly, I think, because of the “Ingoldsby Legends,” which were then coming out in it. Mr. Barham was an old friend of your grandfather; and I believe it was through him that George had the pleasure of seeing himself in print for the first time. The editor accepted some translations of Anacreon, which he had done out of school-hours. Here are two specimens, and though I do not care to see any of you writing for magazines, I should be glad to think that you could render a classic so well at the age of seventeen:—

ANACREON MADE EASY.

η γη μελαινα πινει.

The dark earth drinks the heaven’s refreshing rain;

Trees drink the dew; the ocean drinks the air;

The sun the ocean drinks; the moon again

Drinks her soft radiance from the sun’s bright glare.

Since all things drink, then—earth, and trees, and sea,

And sun and moon are all on quaffing set,

Why should you quarrel, my good friends, with me,

Because I love a pot of heavy wet?

Θελω λεγειν Ατρειδας

I wished the two Atreidæs’ fame to sing,

And woke my lyre to a bold martial strain,

In vain, alas! for when I touched the string,

The song to love and Cupid turned again.

I changed my string, then my whole lyre, I vow

Nought would come out but sentiment and sighs,

Till Cupid broke my numskull with his bow:

“Learn your own place, presumptuous, and be wise.

If you sport epic verses, for your pains

Nought will you get, of that one fact I’m cartin.

Leave to old Grinding Homer blood and brains,

And stick to me, old boy, I’ll make your fortin.”

When “Bentley” arrived at the school-house we were all in astonishment, and not a little uplifted at this feat, which seemed to link the school-house to the great world of literature. George took it very quietly, mentioning it thus in his next letter home:—

“Sept. 1838.—’Tis pleasant, sure, to see oneself in print. I saw my production in Mr. Bentley’s last number by the side of much more deserving ones: I was very much amused with the last number, particularly with the report of the proceedings of the Mudfog Association. The idea of giving the young noblemen and gentlemen a place on purpose for their pranks was delightful, and likely I should think to knock that sort of thing on the head.”

We now went always by rail to London, the guards of those days allowing us, for some time, to travel outside, where we scrambled about amongst the luggage, and climbed down into the carriages while the train was going. I often wonder that none of us broke our necks, especially the present Scotch Secretary of the Treasury, W. Adam, who was the most reckless of us all at these exploits. We always managed, during our few hours in town, to call on some of our father’s literary friends, who were wonderfully kind to us. Here is a specimen:—

“March 1839.—I then went and called on Mr. Barham, and we went for a walk, first up into St. Paul’s Library, where I saw some very fine books. We then went to Drury Lane Theatre, and Mr. Barham got us tickets for that night from Mr. Peake, who is, I believe, stage manager. It was curious to see the difference between the theatre in the day-time, and when it was lighted up at night. We then went to the Garrick Club and saw all the pictures there, which were very interesting. We went to Drury Lane that night and saw Mr. Van Amburgh and his lions, which was the only thing worth seeing in the evening. I saw some other lions, authors, &c. whom Mr. Barham knew; I am sure I think he knows everybody. I must not forget to tell you that we went through Alsatia, to a coal wharf Mr. Barham wanted to visit.

“Have you seen Sir Robert Peel’s speech about the Corn Laws? I should think he must have tired his legs and his lungs both, before he sat down: I don’t understand much about it, but it seems to cause a good deal of excitement.”

In the summer of 1839 he went in for the Exhibition examination, and did so well that his success in 1840 (his last year) was almost a certainty. But he did not remain for another examination, and I must tell you the reason of his leaving before his time, because, though I was then furiously on the other side, I think now that he was in the wrong. It was one of those curious difficulties which will happen, I suppose, every now and then in our great public schools, where the upper boys have so much power and responsibility, and in which there are (or were) a number of customs and traditions as to discipline, which are almost sacred to the boys, but scarcely recognized by the masters.

It happened thus. Just at this time the sixth form boys were on the average smaller and younger than usual, while there were a great number of big boys, not high up in the school, but excellent cricketers and football players, and otherwise manly and popular fellows. They swarmed in the eleven, and big-side football, and were naturally thrown very much with George and his friend Mackie.[6] In some houses, no doubt, they were inclined rather to ignore the authority of the sixth themselves, and of course their example was followed by the fags, so that the discipline of the school began to fall out of gear. At last matters came to a crisis. Some of the sixth form took to reporting to the Doctor cases which, according to school traditions, they ought to have dealt with themselves; and in other ways began to draw the reins too tightly. There were “levies” (as we called them) of the sixth and fifth, at which high words passed, and several of the sixth were sent to Coventry. This made the Doctor very angry, and he took the side of the disciplinarians. Then came a rebellious exhibition of fireworks one evening in the quadrangle. Then an Italian, with a lot of plaster casts, committed the unpardonable sin of coming into the Close without leave, and his wares were taken, and put up for “cock-shyes.” He went straight to the Doctor, who insisted that the sixth should discover and report the offenders; but those who would could not, and those who might would not. The Doctor’s face had been getting blacker and blacker for some time, and at last, one November morning, he sent half a dozen of the big fifth and middle fifth boys home, and told George and his friend Mackie, and one or two other sixth form boys, that they could not return after the end of the half-year.

[6] Afterwards M.P. for Dumfriesshire, a fine scholar and great athlete, who died only nine months before his old friend.

And here I will give you two of your grandfather’s letters to us on these matters, to show you how we were brought up. He was an old Westminster himself, and so quite understood the boys’ side of the dispute.

He begins to George, telling him first about home doings, and then goes on:—

“I have received a letter from Dr. Arnold deserving attention, by which it appears that you have been remiss in your duties as a præposter, though he speaks fairly enough as to your own personal conduct. He alludes particularly to the letting off of fireworks, and the man whose images were broken, in neither of which you appear to have shown due diligence in discovering or reporting the boys concerned. Moreover, he thinks that those præposters who have been more active in enforcing the school routine have been unjustly treated with contempt and insult by the larger party of the boys—in fact, either bullied, or cut; and evidently he thinks that you have been amongst the cutters. Now, it is impossible for me to enter into the exact merits of the case at a distance; and possibly I may not be inclined to see it in all its details with the eye of a zealous schoolmaster; but, as you are now of a thinking age, I will treat the matter candidly to you, as a man of the world and a man of business, in which capacities I hope to see you efficient and respected in the course of a few years. Your own conduct seems to be gentlemanly and correct. Very good; this is satisfactory as far as it goes. But clearly, by the regulations of the school, you have certain duties to perform, the strict execution of which may in some cases be annoying to your own feelings, and to that esprit de corps which always exists among boys. Nevertheless, they must be performed. Those young men who have a real regard for the character of their school, which all of you are ready enough to stickle for when you get outside its walls, must not allow it to become a mere blackguard bear-garden, and to stink in the nostrils of other public schools, by tolerating, in those they are expected to govern, such things as they would not do themselves. When you grow a little older you will soon perceive that there is no situation in life worth having, and implying any respect, where moral firmness is not continually required, and unpleasant duties are to be performed. Were you now in the army, you would find that if you were not strict enough with your men, you would have a pack of drunkards and pilferers under your command, disgracing the regiment; and would receive a hint from your Colonel, in double quick time, to mend your vigilance or sell out. Ditto, if you were older and a college tutor. I remember a clever, amiable, and learned man, whom our young fellows used to laugh at behind his back, and play tricks on before his face, because he laboured under such a nervous gentlemanly scrupulousness that he could not say Bo to a goose, and therefore they learned little under him. I find myself that a magistrate has many harsh and disagreeable duties to perform, but he must perform them, or the law of the land becomes an old song, and his own person ridiculous. So that, in fact, I only urge you to conform yourself, like a sensible person, to the general condition of human life. I am inclined to think that the slackness in your case has arisen more from constitutional ease of temper than for fear of what a clique of disorderly fellows might say of you: for if it had been the latter motive, I am sure you had it not by inheritance from your mother or me. But this ease of temper may be carried to a fault. In a word, you must correct it forthwith in your conduct as a præposter, if you expect that I can treat you, as I wish to do, in the light of a young man, and a responsible person: as to my affection, you will always have that, so long as your own conduct is good. Now as to those crackers; you must have known the thing was childish and dangerous, and forbidden for good reasons. Remember poor Harrow.[7] Therefore you might have interposed in a firm and civil way, and prevented it on pain of instant report to the master, and no one could have complained that you did anything ungentlemanly. As to the fellows who broke the poor man’s images and would not fork out the damage, I wish you had been more successful, perhaps more active, in discovering them; if you had broken their heads I could not have blamed you. But on this I must write to Tom. So good bye; and if you really value my respect for your character, look sharper to your police department. Remember you are no longer a child.”

[7] There had recently been a fireworks row at Harrow, the details of which had got into the newspapers, creating much scandal.

Then, on the same sheet, follows a letter to me. I must explain that I had been one of the image breakers, but had come forward with one of the others and paid the damage.

“I have heard an account of the affair of the images. You should have remembered, as a Christian, that to insult the poor is to despise the ordinance of God in making them so: and moreover, being well born and well bred, and having lived in good company at home, which, may be, has not been the privilege of all your schoolfellows, you should feel that it is the hereditary pride and duty of a gentleman to protect those who perhaps never sat down to a good meal in their lives. It would have been more manly and creditable if you had broken the head of ——, or some pompous country booby in your back settlement, than smashed the fooleries of this poor Pagan Jew, which were to him both funds and landed estate. This strict truth obliges me to say, though, if you had bought his whole stock to indulge the school with a cock-shy, I should only have said ‘A fool and his money are soon parted.’ It is impossible, however, to be angry with you, as you came forward like a lad of spirit and gentlemanly feeling to repair your share, and perhaps more than your share, of the damage. The anxiety the poor fellow had suffered you could not make up to him. And it is well that you did make such reparation as you did; had it not been the case, you never would have recovered the place you would have lost in my esteem. Remember, this sort of thing must never happen again if you value that esteem. And have no acquaintance you can avoid with the stingy cowards who shirked their share of the damage: they can be no fit company for you or any gentleman. I don’t know what the public opinion of Rugby says of them. We plain spoken old Westminsters, in the palmy days of the school, should have called them dirty dogs; and so much for them, more words than they are worth. I am glad to find that your general conduct is approved by the Doctor: and now that you have put your hand to the plough, don’t take it off; and God bless you.”

In conclusion, to George:—

“Don’t cut, or look shy on, any of the præposters who have done their duty, if you do not think they are acting from private pique, or love of power. This question you have sense and honesty to decide for yourself. I have hinted to Arnold that it may be so, but cannot know it as well as you do, yea or nay. And if you do your own duty without flinching, your opinion will have weight with all whom it may concern. The Doctor evidently thinks you could be of essential use to him if you liked, and I am sure he is much too fair and honourable a man to want to make spies of his pupils. If you do not back him in what he has a right to enforce, you pass a tacit censure on a man you profess to esteem.”

George’s answer produced the following from your grandfather:—

“I like the tone of your vindication much. It shows the proper spirit which I wish to cultivate, and a correct sense of what your duties are as a member of society. Be assured that I hate as much as you do the character of a talebearer and meddler, and a fellow who takes advantage of a little brief authority to gratify his own spite and love of importance. And in my reply to Dr. Arnold I said, that having been bred up on the system of ‘study to be quiet and mind your own business,’ you might very likely have fallen into the extreme of non-interference; which I thought was the best extreme for a gentleman to follow. I also hinted that his pets might not be quite immaculate in their motives, or deserve the good opinion of the more gentlemanly boys of their own standing, who had a right to form their own judgment and limit their own acquaintance, though not to interfere with the discipline of the school. What you have said of the fellow who caused the expulsion (rustication I should call it) of the others, confirms me. His conduct, in fact, if his words could be proved, deserves a round robin to Arnold from the school; and if you are sure it is so, I will back you with my full sanction in cutting any such malicious rascal. I think you will see after this that I do not speak from the notions of a pedant or a disciplinarian, and that I do not care two straws how you stand in the opinion of Doctor this, or Doctor that, provided you deserve your own good opinion as a Christian and a gentleman, and do justice to good principles and good blood, for which things you are indebted to sources independent of Rugby. But with all this I do not abandon my position, of which indeed you seem convinced, that order must be enforced at the expense of disagreeable duties. All I wish is this: put Dr. A. out of the question if you please, and enter into the views of the parents of the junior boys as if they were your own family friends: with this view you will not only protect their sons in their little comforts and privileges, but steadily check those habits in them which might render them nuisances in general society, or involve them in scrapes at school. After all, Arnold was right as to the prevention of crackers in the quadrangle, and you ought to have stopped it; on this point you say nothing. As to the investigation of the image matter: if you were not there at the time, you may not be blameable for want of success, and if they expected you to pump Tom, or employ any underhand means in getting at the truth, they knew but little of your family habits. Albeit, I wish the thing could have been traced. It was mean and cowardly, and, if it happened often, ruinous to the character of the school, inasmuch as the fellows did not step forward at once in a manly way and say, ‘We were certainly wrong, and ready to pay for the cock-shy; but the parrots and Napoleons were irresistible.’ The Doctor would have laughed, and approved. I do not wonder he was sore on the subject, feeling like a gentleman for the character of his school, as Lord B—— would have done for the character of his own parish, had a stranger had his pocket picked in it. Nor do I want you to adopt all his views or partialities. Only suppose yourself in his place: fancy what you would have a right to expect, and remember that it cannot be done without the help of the præposters. This you seem inclined to do, and you may do it on your own independent footing, looking as coldly as you please on any clique whose motives may be different from your own. You have no need to court anybody’s favour if you cultivate the means of making yourself independent; and if you only fear God in the true sense, you may snap your fingers at everything else,—which ends all I have to say on this point. ‘Upright and downright’ is the true motto.”

I believe that no boy was ever more regretted. Since he had been in the sixth, and especially in his last year, when he was the Captain of Big-side Football and third in the Eleven, bullying had disappeared from the school-house, and house fagging had lost its irksomeness. The House had regained its position, having beaten the School at football. He had kicked the last goal from “a place” nearly sixty yards from the post. The tradition of that kick was handed down for many years, and, I remarked, was always getting back some few yards; so that, by the time it expired, I have no doubt it had reached 100 yards, and become as fabulous as many other traditions. His rule was perhaps rather too easy. The loafers, who are always too numerous, had a much better time than they deserved; and I doubt whether the school-house first lessons were done so well as at other times; for, instead of each boy going off to his own study after supper, and stern silence reigning in the passages till bed-time, groups of bigger boys would collect round the fires, and three or four fags in one study, and thus much time which should have been given to themes and verses was spent in talking over football and cricket matches, and the Barby and Crick runs at hare and hounds. I know that George himself regretted very much what had occurred, and I believe, had he had a second chance, would have dealt vigorously with the big boys at once. But he had to learn by the loss of his exhibition, as you will all have to learn in one way or another, that neither boys nor men do get second chances in this world. We all get new chances till the end of our lives, but not second chances in the same set of circumstances; and the great difference between one boy and another is, how he takes hold of, and uses, his first chance, and how he takes his fall if it is scored against him.

At the end of the half, Dr. Arnold, with his usual kindness, and with a view I believe to mark his approval of my brother’s character and general conduct at the school, invited him to spend part of his holidays at the Lakes. His visit to Foxhow, and Yorkshire, at Christmas 1839, before he went up to Oxford, delighted him greatly. He had never seen a mountain before, and the fact of seeing them for the first time from his old master’s house, with schoolfellows to whom he was warmly attached, doubled his pleasure. I have only room, however, for one of his letters:—

“Foxhow, Jan. 6th, 1840.

“My dear Father and Mother,

“I will now give you a more lengthened account of my proceedings than I did in my last.

“Last Saturday week I reached Ambleside, as you know. As I was following my luggage to Foxhow I met Mrs. Arnold, and visited Stockgill force.

“Sunday.—I did nothing particular, although it was a splendid day, and we saw the mountains beautifully.

“Monday.—Hard frost. We went up Lufrigg, the mountain close by Foxhow, to try if we could get any skating, but it would not bear my weight. I and Matt Arnold then went down to a swampy sort of lake to shoot snipes: we found a good number, but it came on to rain, and before we got back from Elterwater (the name of the lake) we were well wet through.

“Tuesday—Wednesday.—Rain—rain!

“Thursday.—We were determined to do something, so Matt, Tom, and I took horse and rode to Keswick, and we had a most beautiful ride. We left Lady Fleming’s on the right, went along the shores of Rydale Lake, then from Rydale to Grasmere, then through the pass called High Rocae (I don’t know if that is rightly spelt), leaving a remarkable mountain called the Lion and the Lamb on the right—then to Thurlmere, leaving Helvellyn on the right. Thurlmere is a beautiful little lake: there is a very fine rock on the left bank called Ravenscrag, and on the right Helvellyn rises to an immense height. Then the view of Keswick was most beautiful: Keswick straight before us—Bassenthwaite beyond Keswick in the distance; Derwentwater on our left—Saddleback and Skiddaw on the right, one 2,780 and the other 3,000 feet high, and Helvellyn (3,070 feet) behind us. It was a rainy, misty day, so that we did not see so much as we might have done, and it was only at odd moments that we caught a glimpse of Helvellyn free from clouds, but we were lucky in seeing it at all; they gave us such a dinner at the inn (without our requiring anything grand) as would have made a Southern stare—all the delicacies of the season, potted char among the rest—and charging us only 2s. apiece.

“Friday.—Rainy. Walked into Ambleside to see Mr. Cotton off by the mail, and afterwards as the weather cleared up we went out on Windermere, and had a very pleasant afternoon.

“Saturday.—A fine day. Tom and I determined to do something ‘gordgeous,’ and so we set out to walk up Helvellyn, and we had some precious good walking before we got up. We started from the foot at a quarter past eleven, and reached the summit at a quarter to one. One hour and a half,—pretty good walking, considering three-quarters or more was as steep or steeper than the side of Beacon Hill[8] which we slide down. Although quite warm in the valley, the top of the mountain was a sheet of ice, and the wind blew quite a gale. It did not, however, prevent us from enjoying a view of nearly fifty miles on all sides. We saw Windermere, Coniston, and the sea towards the south, as far as Lancaster. Ulswater close on the north-east; Skiddaw and Saddleback and Bassenthwaite Lake on the north; on the west the range of mountains in which is Scawfell, 3,160 feet, the highest mountain in England. We saw into Scotland, Cumberland, Cheshire, Lancashire, and Yorkshire. It was a most splendid day, but there was a sort of mist in the very far distance which prevented our seeing quite as much as we should otherwise. Helvellyn on the side towards Ulswater descends in a precipice 1,000 feet, and a long narrow ridge, called, I think, Straddle Edge, from its narrowness, stretches out at right angles from the mountain, on the same side. There are innumerable places in which a person might break his neck, or be frozen to death without help, as few go up the mountain at this time of the year, it being a continual frost up there. We made ourselves very comfortable under the lee of a cairn, or heap of stones, which had been raised on the very highest point, round a tall upright pole. I got up, and put a stone at the top, and we put a newspaper which contained our grub into the middle of the heap, having first taken out a quantity of stones; how long it will stay there I don’t know. We then proceeded to grub with uncommon appetite,—some hard ‘unleavened bread,’ some tolerable cheese, and a lot of the common oat-cake they make in the country. We had some good fun, loosening and rolling masses of rock down the precipitous side into the ‘Red Tarn,’ a largish bit of water, and into the table-land below. We then came home by Gresdale Tarn and Grasmere, after a good long walk. This was last Saturday.

“Dr. and Mrs. Arnold are very kind, and I have spent a very pleasant week here. I go away on Tuesday to Escrick Park. Next Wednesday week, or about that time, I shall start for London again, and shall be with you about the 20th; till which time

“I remain, your affectionate son,

“G. E. Hughes.

“Love to all.”

[8] A hill in Lord Carnarvon’s park at Highclere, near Newbury.

The ride to Keswick, mentioned in this letter, is alluded to also in one which I received in this last sad month of May from one of his companions, who has allowed me to use it for your benefit. Its natural place would perhaps be at the end of this memoir, but I prefer to insert it here:—

“Harrow, May 23rd, 1872.

“My dear Hughes,

“I had seen so little of your brother George of late years that I seemed at first to have no business to write about his death; but now, as the days go on, I cannot resist the desire of saying a word about him, and of asking after his wife and children. Not two years ago I had a delightful day at Offley with him—the only time I ever was there; and all I saw of him then, and on the very rare occasions when we met by accident, confirmed my old remembrance of him—that he was one of the most delightful persons to be with I ever met, and that he had, more than almost anybody one met, the qualities which will stand wear. Everything about him seemed so sound; his bodily health and address were so felicitous that one thought of his moral and intellectual soundness as a kind of reflex from them; and now it is his bodily health which has given way! His death carries me back to old times, and the glory and exploits (which are now so often presented so as to bore one) of youth, and strength, and coolness, have their ideal for me in what I remember of him, and his era. His taking the easy lead at golf latterly, as he did in his old days at football and rowing, seemed to me quite affecting. Tell me about his poor wife; and what children has he left, and what are they doing?

“It will be a great loss to you too. Do you remember our ride together to Keswick some thirty-two years ago? We have all a common ground in the past. I have told Macmillan to send you a little book, of which the chief recommendation is that I believe it is the sort of book my father would have been impelled to make if he had had to do with schools for the poor. My kind regards to your wife.

“Affectionately yours,

“Matthew Arnold.”

From Foxhow George went to visit another of his most intimate school friends. During that visit he gave another proof of coolness and courage of a rare kind, and also of his singular modesty. We at home only heard of what had happened through the newspapers, and never could get him to do anything more than pooh-pooh the whole affair. In fact, the first accurate description of the occurrence came to me after his death, in the letter to his sister which follows. It is written by the schoolfellow just referred to:—

“Dusseldorf, June 4th, 1872.

“My dear Mrs. Senior,

“Your very kind letter of the 20th May has just reached me here: and I cannot express in writing one tithe of what I feel. I had no idea of the news it had in store for me; for, having been travelling about lately, I had missed the announcement of the sad loss which we have all had; and so your letter fell on me as a thunderbolt. Poor dear old George! old in the language of affection, ever since we were all at Rugby. Oh! how much I regret now that I never found time in these last few idle years of my life to pay him a visit. And yet, to the brightness and pleasure of my recollections of him, nothing could be added. To the very last he was what he was at the very first: a giant, with a giant’s gentleness and firmness. You may perhaps none of you know that he always felt sure boating was too violent an exercise for anyone. I remember well (and now how sorrowfully) one conversation in which he told me how many of the best oars had fallen in the midst of apparent health and strength. How little did I then think he was to go! and yet I recollect I carried away with me from that conversation an idea that he suspected he had heart-complaint. Was this the case?

“But I will not trouble you to write out to me abroad; for I trust I may soon return to England, and then I shall take the liberty of writing to ask you to see me at Lavender Hill.

“You ask about his stopping the horses at Escrick. It was in 1840 or 1841. He had been left with my two eldest brothers to come home last; and whilst these two brothers were calling at our York Club, George was left sitting alone in the carriage. Suddenly the driver fell off the box in a fit, upon the horses, and they started off. George remembered that in the six-mile drive home there are two right-angled turns; so he determined to get out, run along the pole, and stop the horses. The first time he tried was in vain: steadying himself with his hand on the horses’ quarters, he only frightened them more; so he coolly returned into the carriage again and waited till they had lost some of their speed. He then crept through the window again; ran quicker along the pole, caught their bearing reins, turned them round, and brought back the carriage in triumph to my brothers, who were anxious enough by that time! And then the gentle modest look he had when we all praised him the next morning, I never can forget. Oh, he charmed all: a better creature never lived.

“Tell his boys from me he never could have dreamt even of any divergence from truth. As all men of power, he seemed silent and receptive rather than busy; and where you left him, you picked him up; though the interval might have been ever so long a one.

“I remain, your most sincerely,

“Stephen W. Lawley.”

CHAPTER III.
A FATHER’S LETTERS.

If this memoir is to do for you, his sons and nephews, what I hope it may, you must be told of his weak points. You have seen already that he had to leave school half a year sooner than he would otherwise have left, because he was too easy-going as a sixth-form boy, and would not exert himself to keep order; and he had a constitutional indolence, which led him to shirk trouble in small matters, and to leave things to manage themselves. This fault used to annoy your grandfather, who was always exceedingly particular as to business habits, such as answering letters, and putting things in their right places. When we first were allowed to use guns, he gave us special instructions never to bring them into the house loaded. At the end of the Christmas holidays, just after George was made a præpostor, we brought our guns in loaded, and left them in the servants’ hall during luncheon. After lunch, when we went to take them out again, by some carelessness George’s went off, and he narrowly escaped being shot, and the charge went through two floors. Your grandfather said nothing at the moment, but, soon afterwards, George’s neglect to answer some questions on business matters produced from him the first of a series of letters, which certainly did us much good at the time, and I think may be just as useful to you. Most boys have the same kind of faults, and I cannot see that any of you need such advice less than we did.

“Three questions I put to you in recent letters. These, supposing me simply a common acquaintance, and in a position to ask the questions, should have been promptly answered, and it is but reasonable to claim what is due to any Mr. Jones or Mr. Jobson. Without self-command enough to be punctual and methodical, you cannot realize your plans as to more serious things than I now write about; nor, indeed, can you do anything effective in study without it. Read as much as you will, it will be like filling the sieve of the Danaids. But to drop fine metaphors and come to plain English, in heaven’s name begin to be wide awake to the common exigencies and observances of life. You can see distant and abstracted things well enough; but in such common things as are understood and practised by every boy behind a counter who is worth his salt, you are in the state of a blind puppy in the straw. I do not speak with the least anger on the subject; but, as a man of common worldly sense, I cannot too pointedly and forcibly urge on you, that without a complete alteration in this respect, everything of real importance which you attempt in the business of life will be an absolute failure. You swear by Scott. Recollect Athelstan the Unready. He gives ample proof of both high valour and sound sense, and, when roused from his ruminative state, is even forcibly eloquent (where he floors the insolence of De Bracy). Yet he is the butt of the whole piece, because he is always ten minutes after time in thought and action; albeit he is by nature a finer character than Cedric, and twice as big and well-born. But everyone minds Cedric because he knows his own will and purpose, and carries it out promptly, with the power of seeing such things as are directly before his nose.”

George’s reply appears to have contained some statement as to his intentions in the matter of reading, as well as satisfactory answers to the neglected questions. Your grandfather, however, returns to the charge again:—

“I fully believe you have every desire and intention to follow up the course I wish, though your own experience in the vacation must have shown you that this desire is not enough unless backed by determination and method. I should not wish you to debar yourself of the full portion of healthy exercise desirable at your age, which is like ‘the meat and mass which hindereth no man,’ as our quaint old English expresses it. But I certainly wish you to recollect that the present year” [1838—he was seventeen] “is one of the most important in your life, as you are just of the age when the character forms itself one way or the other, and when time becomes valuable in a double degree. You told me of your own accord that your wish was to distinguish yourself at Oxford. If you are as certain as I am that this wish is a wise and desirable one, the next point is, to let it become one of those determinations which are only qualified by ‘Deo volente.’ With the foundation which has been already laid, the thing is undoubtedly in your power, with life and health; and, if these fail us, the fault lies not in ourselves. The secret of attaining any point is, not so much in the quantity of time bestowed on it at regular and stated intervals, as in the strong will and inclination which makes it a matter of curiosity and interest, recurring to us at odds and ends of time, and never out of the mind; a labour of inclination rather than a matter of duty—a chase, as it were, of a wild duck” [we lived close to a river where wild ducks bred], “instead of a walk for the promotion of health and appetite. This sort of interest anyone may create on anything he pleases: for it is an artificial taste, not perhaps so easily understood at your time of life.... Industry in one’s vocation, when an honest and creditable one, is a Christian duty, although followed by persons indifferent to anything but self-interest. And it usually pleases God so to dispose of the course of events, that those best qualified to be useful to others in their generation have the best prospect of success in it.... The knowledge of history, divinity, and the dead languages, which you are now acquiring, are the basis of a liberal education, and play into each other as naturally as the hilt of a weapon fits the blade: these therefore are the points of leading interest in your life, in which your push should be made. Composition also is a valuable thing, in order to impart clearly to others what you know yourself, and prevent your candle from being hid under a bushel; and nothing bears a higher value in the world than this faculty. Mathematics are good, as they strengthen the attention and clear the head. In these I see you took a first class, and as I think you have a turn for them, I trust you will hold your present footing without sacrificing things which hereafter may be more essential. A fair progress in modern languages is not to be neglected; but the great points of interest are such as I have laid down, viz. knowledge of the connexion, and leading features, of sacred and profane history; a true digestion of it in your head, and the power of clearly expressing whatever thoughts arise from it; and a critical acquaintance with the original languages from which the knowledge is derived. This, I have no doubt, will correspond with Dr. Arnold’s ideas as to the objects and direction of study in your case. In short, make up your mind what you will do, what you will be, and what portion of success you may fairly hope for by fairly pointing your nose to the desirable end; then keep it pointed there as steadily as the pin of the dial (‘gnomon’ if you want to be learned). And remember, that the more irksome any habit is in its formation, the more pleasantly and satisfactorily it sticks to you when formed. Order and clockwork in small things is what you want. Exempli gratia, the key of the pew-box gave us a long hunt the other day, till in going to church we found it sticking in the lock. Then, none of you ever put a book in its place again. N. S—— does, because he learned the habit from compulsion, and it has become second nature.”

“Donnington, 1839.

“Your mother and grandmother are both anxious that some destination should be early fixed for all of you; but on this I, who am more answerable, am rather cautious; feeling that much depends on what your own habits and predilections may be. At all events the right basis of every one’s education is this—to love God and your neighbour, and do your duty with diligence in whatever state of life circumstances may place you. No one can live in vain acting on these principles, and whatever tends not to their establishment is of very trifling importance. I have no time to pursue the subject further at present, as this is a busy morning, and your mother will want a good share of this paper. I have begun another folio to Jack. N.B. You always have luck when I begin a letter, as I take a folio sheet in the spirit of foresight. Wat never brought his fishing-rod in; he is old enough now to cultivate orderly habits, and eschew (not chew) mouse pie. N.B. Eschew comes from Teutonic schauern, to shudder at.”

Again in 1840, referring to this indolent, easy-going habit, your grandfather writes:—

“The temper of mind which I mean is often allied (and in your case I trust and believe it is) to certain qualities, good in a social and Christian sense: candour, good nature, and a contented spirit; just as certain peculiar weeds are frequently the indication of a sound and wholesome staple of soil: but then they are weeds, and it is a Christian duty to eradicate them in the labourer responsible for the care of the soil. In this respect the children of this world are the wisest in their generation. We may safely take examples of skill, activity, and abiding interest in a purpose, from the worst and most selfish men; and those who are wise, as well as good, do take the example, and profit by it. Not but that young persons constitutionally indolent, if they are also conscientious in their duty to their friends, and correct in the general notion that industry in a calling is a duty, do complete their stated hours of study in an honest and competent manner. And this is precisely your case; a case which has put me in an awkward position in pointing out your deficiencies. It is an ungracious thing to tease and spur a tractable, good-tempered horse, who trots his seven miles an hour of his own accord, even when you know that he has the blood and power in him to go up to the best hounds with due training, and it is hard to treat one’s son worse than one’s horse (or than one’s servants, for your mother truly taxes me with not keeping my household tightly up to their duties). These deficiencies nevertheless exist, and are indicated by many small traits. Now, indolence in my sense, and as applied to you, is exactly in the correct sense of the word—‘in’ (non) and ‘doleo,’ viz., as the Scots say, ‘canna be fashed’—cannot, unless led by some moral duty, or exigence of society, jump upon my legs and go about some little, teasing, but necessary five minutes’ errand, or turn my mind for the same time, by a sudden jerk, to something which breaks up the prevailing train of thought. This is a constitutional failing of my own, and I have been forced to establish rules in some things to break it through. But I never was tempted by it so as to leave anything to chance where any favourite project was concerned; here I expended perhaps too much accuracy and double diligence. Hence I fear the evil is more deeply seated in you. The last example is this:—On inspecting and laying up the two double guns, I found the inside of one rusty, the other black from careless cleaning. Now, no thoroughbred sportsman ever contents himself, when laying up his tools in ordinary, with trusting to his servant’s care, and not his own eye, in cleaning. Yet you are a good shot—doubtless because you like shooting, and employ while in the field all the power of your mind and body to attain your purpose. What is wanting is, the submission to dry detail (id quod dolet). But no one can be a thorough and efficient master of anything who cannot see to details. Pump away with all your might, and welcome, but your labour will be thrown away if you won’t submit to stop the leaks in your tub. It is exactly from the same temper that I have seen you take up a book in company when rather dull. True, the book is the more sensible companion, but the time and place prescribes ‘quod dolet,’ though not so agreeable, or edifying. Thus it is in fifty things, all arguing a want of that order, and exactness, resulting from the due division of the mind. I could even argue it from the trifling trait of your never carrying a tassel to wipe your arrows with, and leaving your books open on the table for the maids to spill ink or dust on. I can prescribe for you in future in these respects, if you will trust yourself to me cheerfully, and not look aguish and woe-begone when spurred up to the mark by a word in season.”

And again in 1842:—

“As an illustration is necessary to a theme, suppose two garden engines of equal capacity, one leaky and loosely constructed, the other well staunched, which does not waste a drop of water. You may cobble and plug up the first pro tem., and by working it with a strong arm make it play well: anon it leaketh again, and without a strong and troublesome effort it is no go. The second is tight and compact at a moment’s notice, and throws its stream with precision, just as much as is wanted, and where it is wanted—

φωνᾶντα συνετοῖσιν.

“I think there has been some improvement this year in your briskness and precision, but there is room for more. Straws show which way the wind blows. Videlicet, the not having looked in the calendar.[9] Then you keep your watch with your razors, and never can tell me what’s o’clock. With respect to your capacity for giving your might and main to a subject, when you are at it, I know enough to be well satisfied, and have no criticism to make.”

[9] As to sending in prize exercises at Oxford. A copy of his was too late.

The last reference of this kind which I find in your grandfather’s letters, which we’re always carefully preserved by George, occurs in 1846. After referring to an omission to notice the transfer of some money to his account, your grandfather goes on:—

“By the bye, I certainly am under the impression that you shrink from the trouble of details and cares of this kind; the same impression which I entertained five or six years ago. You must yourself know best whether I am right or not, and it is now of importance that you should candidly ask yourself the question, and, if self-convicted, turn completely over a new leaf, on account of having others soon to act and manage for, as master of a house. I need hardly tell you I suppose that, in all points of paramount importance, your character has formed in a manner which has given me thorough satisfaction, and that your friends and relatives have just reason for appreciating you highly as a member of society. I will also add, and with truth, that I know no man of your age, who, if placed in a difficult situation, would in my opinion act with more sense, firmness, and discretion; and this is much indeed. But the possession of a naturally decisive and influential character is just what requires digested method in small and necessary things; otherwise the defect is more ridiculously anomalous than in a scatter-brained fellow, whom no one looks up to, or consults. It is a godsend if a beggar is any better than barefoot, but what would you say to a well-dressed man otherwise, who had forgotten his feet, and came into a drawing-room with a pair of greasy slippers? Without buttering you up, yours happens to be a character which, to round it off consistently and properly, demands accuracy in small and irksome things. In some respects I really think you have acquired this; in others, are acquiring it; and have no doubt that when ten years older, you will have progressed in a suitable degree. Meantime, if you are conscious that anything is wanting in these respects, it is high time now to put on the steam.”

As a slight illustration of the effect of these letters, I may add here, that to the end of his life, when he came in from shooting, my brother never rested until he had cleaned his gun with his own hands. When asked why he did not leave it to the keeper, he said he preferred its being done at once, and thoroughly; and the only way of being sure of that, was to do it himself. In some respects, however, he never got over his constitutional love of taking things easily, and avoiding bother and trouble.

CHAPTER IV.
OXFORD.

My brother went up to Oxford full of good resolves as to reading, which he carried out far better than most men do, although undoubtedly after his first year, his popularity, by enlarging the circle of his acquaintance to an inconvenient extent, somewhat interfered with his studies. Your grandfather was delighted at having a son likely to distinguish himself actually resident in his own old College. In his time it had occupied the place in the University now held by Balliol. Copleston and Whately had been his tutors; and, as he had resided a good deal after taking his degree, he had seen several generations of distinguished men in the common room, including Arnold, Blanco White, Keble, Pusey, and Hampden. Moreover, there was a tradition of University distinction in his family; his father had been Setonian Prizeman and Chancellor’s Medallist at Cambridge, and he himself had carried off the Latin verse prize, and one of the English Odes recited before the United Sovereigns, when they paid a visit to the Oxford Commemoration in 1814, with Wellington, Blücher, and a host of the great soldiers of that day.

His anxiety as to George’s start at Oxford manifested itself in many ways, and particularly as to the want of punctuality, and accuracy in small matters, which he had already noticed. As a delicate lesson on this subject, I find him taking advantage of the fact that George’s watch was in the hands of the maker for repairs, to send him his own chronometer, adding: “As your sense of trustworthiness in little and great things is a considerably multiplied multiple of your care for your own private property (which doubtless will grow to its right proportion when you have been cheated a little), I have no doubt old Trusty will return to me in as good order as when he left me. Furthermore, it is possible you may take a fancy to him when you have learnt the value of an unfailing guide to punctuality. In which case, if you can tell me at the end of term that you have, to the best of your belief, made the most of your time, I will with great pleasure swap with you. As to what is making the best of your time, you would of course like to have my ideas. Thus, then”—and your grandfather proceeds to give a number of rules, founded on his own old Oxford experience, as to reading, and goes on:—

“All this, you will say, cuts out a tolerably full employment for the term. But when you can call this in your recollections, ‘terminus alba cretâ notandus,’ it will be worth trouble. I believe the intentions of most freshmen are good, and the first term generally well spent: the second and third are often the trial, when one gets confidence in oneself; and the sense of what is right and honourable must come in place of that deference for one’s superior officers, which is at first instinctive. I am glad you find you can do as you please, and choose your own society without making yourself at all remarkable. So I found, for the same reasons that facilitate the matter to you. Domestic or private education, I believe, throws more difficulties in the way of saying ‘No’ when it is your pleasure so to do, and the poor wight only gets laughed at instead of cultivated. After all, one may have too many acquaintance, unexceptionable though they be. But I do not know that much loss of time can occur to a person of perfectly sober habits, as you are, if he leaves wine parties with a clear head at chapel time, and eschews supping and lounging, and lunching and gossiping, and tooling in High Street, and such matters, which belong more to particular cliques than to a generally extended acquaintance in College. In all these things, going not as a raw lad, but as a man of nineteen, with my father’s entire confidence, I found I could settle the thing to my satisfaction in no time: your circumstances are precisely the same, and the result will probably be the same. I applaud, and κυδίζε, and clap you on the back for rowing: row, box, fence, and walk with all possible sturdiness. Another thing: I believe an idea prevails that it is necessary to ride sometimes, to show yourself of equestrian rank. If you have any mind this way, write to Franklin to send Stevens with your horse; keep him a few weeks, and I will allow you a £5 note to assert your equestrian dignity, now or at any other time. This is a better style of thing than piaffing about on hired Oxford cocky-horses, like Jacky Popkin, and all such half-measures. The only objection to such doings is, that you certainly do see a style of men always across a horse who are fit for nothing else, and non constat that they always know a hock from a stifle-joint. But this is only per accidens. And if you have a fancy for an occasional freak this way, remember I was bred in the saddle, and, whatever my present opinions may be from longer experience, can fully enter into your ideas.”

You will see by his answer how readily George entered into some of his father’s ideas, though I don’t think he ever sent for his horse. A few weeks later, in 1841, he writes:—

“Now to answer your last letters. I shall be delighted to accept you as my prime minister for the next two years. Any plan of reading which you chalk out for me I think I shall be able to pursue—at least I am sure I will try to do so. Men reading for honours now generally employ ‘a coach.’ If you will condescend to be my coach, I will try to answer to the whip to the best of my power.”

Your grandfather accepted the post with great pleasure; and there are a number of his letters, full of hints and directions as to study, which I hope you may all read some day, but which would make this memoir too long. You will see later on how well satisfied he was with the general result, though in one or two instances he had sad disappointments to bear, as most fathers have who are anxious about their sons’ work. The first of these happened this year. He was specially anxious that George should write for the Latin Verse, which prize he himself had won. Accordingly George wrote in his first year, but, instead of taking his poem himself to the Proctor’s when he had finished it, left it with his College tutor to send in. The consequence was, it was forgotten till after the last day for delivery, and so could not be received. This was a sad trial to your grandfather, both because he had been very sanguine as to the result, and because here was another instance of George’s carelessness about his own affairs, and want of punctuality in small things. However, he wrote so kindly about it, that George was more annoyed than if he had been very angry, and set to work on the poem for the next year as soon as the subject was announced, which I remember was “Noachi Diluvium.” You may be sure that now the poem went in in good time, but in due course the Examiners announced that no prize would be given for the year. I do not know that any reason was ever given for this unusual course, which surprised everyone, as it was known that several very good scholars, including, I believe, the late Head-master of Marlborough, had been amongst the competitors. Your grandfather was very much vexed. He submitted George’s poem to two of his old college friends, Dean Milman and Bishop Lonsdale, both of whom had been Latin prizemen; and, when they expressed an opinion that, in default of better copies of verses, these should have been entitled to the prize, he had them printed, with the following heading:—

“The refusal of the Official Committee of Examiners to award any prize for the Oxford Latin verse of 1842, has naturally led to a supposition that the scholarship and intelligence of the competitors has fallen short of the usual standard. Having, however, perused the following copy of verses, which are probably a fair specimen of those sent in, I am inclined to think, as a graduate and somewhat conversant with such subjects, that this discouraging inference is unfounded, and that the committee have been influenced in their discretion by some unexplained reason, involving no reflection on the candidates for the prize, as compared with those of former years.”

The real fact I believe to have been, so far as George was concerned, that there were two false quantities in his verses; and though these were so palpable, as your grandfather remarked, “as to be obvious to any fifth-form boy, and plainly due to carelessness in transcription, and want of revision by a second person,” the Examiners were clearly not bound to make allowances for such carelessness.

Many years after, in a letter to his sister, on some little success of her boy at Rugby, George writes:—

“I congratulate you on Walter’s success. We are much more interested for our brats than we were for ourselves. I remember how miserable my poor father made himself once when I did not get a Latin Verse prize at Oxford, and how much more sorry I was for him than for myself. Anyhow, there is no pleasure equal to seeing one’s children distinguish themselves—it makes one young again.”

But I must return to his freshman’s year at Oxford.

I have told you already that this was our first separation of any length. I did not see him from the day he went to Oxford in January until our Rugby Eleven went up to Lords, at the end of the half-year, for the match with the M.C.C. It was the first time I had ever played there, and of course I was very full of it, and fancied the match the most important event which was occurring in England the time. One of our Eleven did not turn up, and George was allowed to play for us. He was, as usual, a tower of strength in a boys’ Eleven, because you could rely on his nerve. When the game was going badly, he was always put in to keep up his wicket, and very seldom failed to do it. On this occasion we were in together, and he made a long score, but, I thought, did not play quite in his usual style; and on talking the matter over with him when we got home, I found that he had not been playing at Oxford, but had taken to boating.

I expressed my sorrow at this, and spoke disparagingly of boating, of which I knew nothing whatever. We certainly had a punt in the stream at home, but it was too narrow for oars, and I scarcely knew a stretcher from a rowlock. He declared that he was as fond of cricket as ever, but that in the whole range of sport, even including hunting, there was no excitement like a good neck-and-neck boat-race, and that I should come to think so too.

At this time his boating career had only just begun, and rowing was rather at a discount at Oxford. For several years Cambridge had had their own way with the dark blues, notably in this very year of 1841. But a radical reformer had just appeared at Oxford, whose influence has lasted to the present day, and to whom the substitution of the long stroke with sharp catch at the beginning (now universally accepted as the only true form) for the short, digging “waterman’s” stroke, as it used to be called, is chiefly due. This was Fletcher Menzies, then captain of the University College boat. He had already begun to train a crew on his own principles, in opposition to the regular University crew, and, amongst others, had selected my brother, though a freshman, and had taken him frequently down the river behind himself in a pair-oar. The first result of this instruction was, that my brother won the University pair-oar race, pulling stroke to another freshman of his own college.

In Michaelmas Term, 1841, it became clear to all judges of rowing that the opposition was triumphant. F. Menzies was elected captain of the O. U. B. C., and chose my brother as his No. 7, so that on my arrival at Oxford in the spring of 1842, I found him training in the University crew. The race with Cambridge was then rowed in the summer, and over the six-mile course, between Westminster and Putney bridges. This year the day selected was the 12th of June. I remember it well, for I was playing at the same time in the Oxford and Cambridge match at Lord’s. The weather was intensely hot, and we were getting badly beaten. So confident were our opponents in the prowess of their University, that, at dinner in the Pavilion, they were offering even bets that Cambridge would win all three events—the cricket match, the race at Westminster, and the Henley Cup, which was to be rowed for in the following week. This was too much for us, and the bets were freely taken; I myself, for the first and last time in my life, betting five pounds with the King’s man who sat next me. Before our match was over the news came up from the river that Oxford had won.

It was the last race ever rowed by the Universities over the long six-mile course. To suit the tide, it was rowed down, from Putney to Westminster Bridge. My brother unluckily lost his straw hat at the start, and the intense heat on his head caused him terrible distress. The boats were almost abreast down to the Battersea reach, where there were a number of lighters moored in mid stream, waiting for the tide. This was the crisis of the race. As the boats separated, each taking its own side, Egan, the Cambridge coxswain, called on his crew: Shadwell, the Oxford coxswain, heard him, and called on his own men, and when the boats came in sight of each other again from behind the lighters, Oxford was well ahead. But my brother was getting faint from the effects of the sun on his head, when Shadwell reminded him of the slice of lemon which was placed in each man’s thwart. He snatched it up, and at the same time F. Menzies took off his own hat and gave it him; and, when the boat shot under Westminster Bridge with a clear lead, he was quite himself again.

In our college boat—of which he was now stroke, and which he took with a brilliant rush to the head of the river, bumping University, the leading boat, to which his captain, F. Menzies, was still stroke, after two very severe races—he always saw that every man had a small slice of lemon at the start, in memory of the Battersea reach.

Next year (1843), owing to a dispute about the time, there was no University race over the London course, but the crews were to meet at the Henley Regatta. The meeting was looked forward to with more than ordinary interest, as party feeling was running high between the Universities. In the previous year, after their victory in London, the Oxford boat had gone to Henley, but had withdrawn, in consequence of a decision of the stewards, allowing a man to row in the Cambridge crew who had already rowed in a previous heat, in another boat. So the cup remained in the possession of the Cambridge Rooms, a London rowing club, composed of men who had left college, and of the best oarsmen still at the University. If the Cambridge Rooms could hold the challenge cup this year also, it would become their property. But we had little fear of this, as Menzies’ crew was in better form than ever. He had beaten Cambridge University in 1842, and we were confident would do it again; and, as the Rooms were never so strong as the University, we had no doubt as to the result of the final heat also. I remember walking over from Oxford the night before the regatta, with a friend, full of these hopes, and the consternation with which we heard, on arriving at the town, that the Cambridge University boat had withdrawn, so that the best men might be draughted from it into the Rooms’ crew, the holders of the cup. Those only who have felt the extraordinary interest which these contests excite can appreciate the dismay with which this announcement filled us. Our boat would, by this arrangement, have to contend with the picked oars of two first-class crews; and we forgot that, after all, though the individual men were better, the fact of their not having trained regularly together made them really less formidable competitors. But far worse news came in the morning. F. Menzies had been in the Schools in the previous month, and the strain of his examination, combined with training for the race, had been too much for him. He was down with a bad attack of fever. What was to be done? It was settled at once that my brother should row stroke, and a proposal was made that the vacant place in the boat should be filled by one of Menzies’ college crew. The question went before the stewards, who, after long deliberation, determined that this could not be allowed. In consequence of the dispute in the previous year, they had decided, that only those oarsmen whose names had been sent in could row in any given race. I am not sure where the suggestion came from, I believe from Menzies himself, that his crew should row the race with seven oars; but I well remember the indignation and despair with which the final announcement was received.

However, there was no help for it, and we ran down the bank to the starting-place by the side of our crippled boat, with sad hearts, cheering them to show our appreciation of their pluck, but without a spark of hope as to the result. When they turned to take up their place for the start, we turned also, and went a few hundred yards up the towing-path, so as to get start enough to enable us to keep up with the race. The signal-gun was fired, and we saw the oars flash in the water, and began trotting up the bank with our heads turned over our shoulders. First one, and then another, cried out that “we were holding our own,” that “light blue was not gaining.” In another minute they were abreast of us, close together, but the dark blue flag the least bit to the front. A third of the course was over, and, as we rushed along and saw the lead improved foot by foot, almost inch by inch, hope came back, and the excitement made running painful. In another minute, as they turned the corner and got into the straight reach, the crowd became too dense for running. We could not keep up, and could only follow with our eyes and shouts, as we pressed up towards the bridge. Before we could reach it the gun fired, and the dark blue flag was run up, showing that Oxford had won.

Then followed one of the temporary fits of delirium which sometimes seize Englishmen, the sight of which makes one slow to disbelieve any crazy story which is told of the doings of other people in moments of intense excitement. The crew had positively to fight their way into their hotel, and barricade themselves there, to escape being carried round Henley on our shoulders. The enthusiasm, frustrated in this direction, burst out in all sorts of follies, of which you may take this as a specimen. The heavy toll-gate was pulled down, and thrown over the bridge into the river, by a mob of young Oxonians headed by a small, decorous, shy man in spectacles, who had probably never pulled an oar in his life, but who had gone temporarily mad with excitement, and I am confident would, at that moment, have led his followers not only against the Henley constables, but against a regiment with fixed bayonets. Fortunately, no harm came of it but a few broken heads and black eyes, and the local authorities, making allowances for the provocation, were lenient at the next petty sessions.

The crew went up to London from Henley, to row for the Gold Cup, in the Thames Regatta, which had just been established. Here they met the Cambridge Rooms’ crew again, strengthened by a new No. 3 and a new stroke, and the Leander, then in its glory, and won the cup after one of the finest and closest races ever rowed. There has been much discussion as to these two races ever since in the boating world, in which my brother was on one occasion induced to take part. “The Oxford University came in first,” was his account, “with a clear lead of the Leander, the Cambridge crew overlapping the Leander. We were left behind at the start, and had great difficulty in passing our opponents, not from want of pace, but from want of room.” And, speaking of the Henley race, which was said to have been won against a “scratch crew,” he adds: “A ‘scratch crew’ may mean anything short of a perfectly trained crew of good materials. Anyone who cares about it will find the names of the Rooms’ crew at p. 100 of Mr. Macmichael’s book, and by consulting the index will be able to form a judgment as to the quality of our opponents. We had a very great respect for them. I never attempted to exaggerate the importance of the ‘seven oars’ race,’ and certainly never claimed to have beaten a Cambridge University crew on that occasion.” It will always remain, however, one of the most interesting of the heroic records of a noble English sport.

He announced his own triumphs at home as follows, from the Golden Cross, where the Oxford crew then stopped:—

“My dear Father and Mother,—I should have been with you yesterday, but was obliged to wait because they had not finished the gold oars which we have won at Putney. We have been as successful here as we were at Henley, and I hope I shall bring home the cup to show you. I shall be home to-morrow, and very glad to get to Donnington again. I don’t feel the least unsettled by these proceedings, and am in an excellent humour for reading.”

The two great cups came to Donnington, and remained for the year on your grandfather’s sideboard, who could never quite make up his mind about them; pride at his son’s extraordinary prowess being dashed with fears as to the possible effects on him. George himself, at this time, certainly had no idea that he was at all the worse for it, and maintained in his letters that pulling “is not so severe exercise as boxing or fencing hard for an hour.” “You may satisfy yourselves I shall not overdo it. I have always felt the better for it as yet, but if I were to feel the least inconvenience I should give it up at once.”

One effect the seven-oar race had on our generation at Oxford: it made boating really popular, which it had not been till then. I, amongst others, was quite converted to my brother’s opinion, and began to spend all my spare time on the water. Our college entered for the University four-oar races in the following November Term, and, to my intense delight, I was selected for No. 2, my brother pulling stroke.

Our first heat was against Balliol, and through my awkwardness it proved to be the hardest race my brother ever rowed. At the second stroke after the start I caught a crab (to use boating phrase), and such a bad one that the head of our boat was forced almost into the bank, and we lost not a stroke or two, but at least a dozen, Balliol going away with a lead of two boats’ lengths and more. Few strokes would have gone on in earnest after this, and I am not sure that my brother would, but that it was my first race for a University prize. As it was, he turned round, took a look at Balliol, and just said, “Shove her head out! Now then,” and away we went. Of course I was burning with shame, and longing to do more than my utmost to make up for my clumsiness. The boat seemed to spring under us, but I could feel it was no doing of mine. Just before the Gut we were almost abreast of them, but, as they had the choice of water, we were pushed out into mid stream, losing half a boat’s length, and having now to pull up against the full current while Balliol went up on the Oxford side under the willows. Our rivals happened also to be personal friends, and I remember well becoming conscious as we struggled up the reach that I was alongside, first of their stroke, the late Sir H. Lambert, then of No. 3, W. Spottiswoode, and at last, as we came to the Cherwell, just before the finish, of our old schoolfellow, T. Walrond, who was pulling the bow oar. I felt that the race was won, for they had now to come across to us; and won it was, but only by a few feet. I don’t think the rest of us were much more distressed than we had been before in college races. But my brother’s head drooped forward, and he could not speak for several seconds. I should have learnt then, if I had needed to learn, that it is the stroke who wins boat races.

Our next heat against University, the holders of the cup was a much easier affair. We won by some lengths, and my brother had thus carried off every honour which an oarsman can win at the University, except the sculls, for which he had never been able to enter. I cannot remember any race in which he pulled stroke and was beaten.

There are few pleasanter memories in my life than those of the river-side, when we were training behind him in our college crew. He was perhaps a thought too easy, and did not keep us quite so tightly in hand as the captains of some of the other leading boats kept their men. But the rules of training were then barbarous, and I think we were all the better for not being strictly limited even in the matter of a draught of cold water, or compelled to eat our meat half cooked. He was most judicious in all the working part of training, and no man ever knew better when to give his crew the long Abingdon reach, and when to be content with Iffley or Sandford. At the half-hour’s rest at those places he would generally sit quiet, and watch the skittles, wrestling, quoits, or feats of strength which were going on all about. But if he did take part in them, he almost always beat everyone else. I only remember one occasion on which he was fairly foiled. In consequence of his intimacy with F. Menzies, our crew were a great deal with that of University College, and much friendly rivalry existed between us. One afternoon one of their crew,[10] R. Mansfield, brother of George’s old vaulting antagonist, rode down to Sandford, where, in the field near the inn, there was always a furze hurdle for young gentlemen to leap over. In answer to some chaffing remark, Mansfield turned round, and, sitting with his face towards his horse’s tail, rode him over this hurdle. Several of us tried it after him, George amongst the number, but we all failed; and of course declared that it was all a trick, and that his horse was trained to do it under him, and to refuse under anybody else.

[10] Author of “The Log of the Water Lily,” &c.

The four-oar race was the last of my brother’s boating triumphs. At the end of the term he gave up rowing, as his last year was beginning, and he was anxious to get more time for his preparation for the Schools. I am not sure that he succeeded in this as, strong exercise of some kind being a necessity to him, he took to playing an occasional game at cricket, and was caught and put into the University Eleven. He pulled, however, in one more great race, in the Thames Regatta of 1845, when he was still resident as a bachelor, attending lectures. Number 6 in the Oxford boat broke down, and his successor applied to him to fill the place, to which he assented rather unwillingly. The following extract from a letter to his father gives the result, and the close of his boating career:—

“You will have seen that Oxford was unsuccessful in London for the Grand Cup, but I really think we should have won it had it not been for that unlucky foul. I only consented to take an oar in the boat because they said they could not row without me, and found myself well up to the work.”

He always retained his love for rowing, and came up punctually every year to take his place on the umpire’s boat at the University race, to which he had a prescriptive claim as an old captain of the O.U.B.C. And this chapter may fitly close with a boating song, the best of its kind that I know of, which he wrote at my request. It appeared in Mr. Severn’s “Almanac of English Sports,” published at Christmas 1868. I had rashly promised the editor to give him some verses for March, on the University race, and put it off till it was time to go to press. When my time was limited by days, and I had to sit down to my task in the midst of other work, I found that the knack of rhyming had left me, and turned naturally to the brother who had helped me in many a copy of verses thirty years back. I sent him down some dozen hobbling lines, and within a post or two I received from him the following, on the March Boat Race:—

The wood sways and rocks in the fierce Equinox,

The old heathen war-god bears rule in the sky,

Aslant down the street drives the pitiless sleet,

At the height of the house-tops the cloud-rack spins by.

Old Boreas may bluster, but gaily we’ll muster,

And crowd every nook on bridge, steamboat, and shore,

With cheering to greet Cam and Isis, who meet

For the Derby of boating, our fête of the oar.

“Off jackets!”—each oarsman springs light to his seat,

And we veterans, while ever more fierce beats the rain,

Scan well the light form of each hardy athlete,

And live the bright days of our youth once again.

A fig for the weather! they’re off! swing together!

Tho’ lumpy the water and furious the wind,

Against a “dead noser”[11] our champions can row, Sir,

And leave the poor “Citizens” panting behind.

“Swing together!” The Crab-tree, Barnes, Chiswick are past;

Now Mortlake—and hark to the signaling gun!

While the victors, hard all, long and strong to the last,

Rush past Barker’s rails, and our Derby is won.

Our Derby, unsullied by fraud and chicane,

By thieves-Latin jargon, and leg’s howling din—

Our Derby, where “nobbling” and “roping” are vain,

Where all run their best, and the best men must win.

No dodges we own but strength, courage, and science;

Gold rules not the fate of our Isthmian games;

In brutes—tho’ the noblest—we place no reliance;

Our racers are men, and our turf is the Thames.

The sons of St. Dennis in praise of their tennis,

Of chases and volleys, may brag to their fill;

To the northward of Stirling, of golf, and of curling,

Let the chiels wi’ no trousers crack on as they will.

Cricket, football, and rackets—but hold, I’ll not preach,