CHAPTER IV.OXFORD.

“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 anythingeffectivein 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 bothhigh 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 inyour 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 ofthe 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, thatthe 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 goodshare 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, andeschew (not chew) mouse pie. N.B. Eschew comes from Teutonicschauern, to shudder at.”

“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 goodshare 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, andeschew (not chew) mouse pie. N.B. Eschew comes from Teutonicschauern, 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 theyareweeds, 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 treatone’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;hereI 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 notso 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 firstpro 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.

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 isnowof 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 respectsI 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.

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 theypaid 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 yourrecollections, ‘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 Oxfordcocky-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, andnon constatthat they always know a hock from a stifle-joint. But this is onlyper 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 happenedthis 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 shouldhave 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, andhow 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 includinghunting, 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 Westminsterand 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 mybrother 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 becometheir 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, thecrowd 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 beenestablished. 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.Wehad 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 rememberone 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 meetFor 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,Every man to his fancy:—I’m too old to mend—So givemea good stretch down the Abingdon reach,Six miles every inch, and “hard all” to the end.Then row, dear Etonians and Westminsters, row,Row, hard-fisted craftsmen on Thames and on Tyne,Labuan,[12]New Zealand, your chasubles[13]peel, andIn one spurt of hard work, and hard rowing, combineOur maundering critics may prate as they pleaseOf glory departed and influence flown—Row and work, boys of England, on rivers and seas,And the old land shall hold, firm as ever, her own.

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.

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

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.

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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,Every man to his fancy:—I’m too old to mend—So givemea good stretch down the Abingdon reach,Six miles every inch, and “hard all” to the end.

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

Every man to his fancy:—I’m too old to mend—

So givemea good stretch down the Abingdon reach,

Six miles every inch, and “hard all” to the end.

Then row, dear Etonians and Westminsters, row,Row, hard-fisted craftsmen on Thames and on Tyne,Labuan,[12]New Zealand, your chasubles[13]peel, andIn one spurt of hard work, and hard rowing, combine

Then row, dear Etonians and Westminsters, row,

Row, hard-fisted craftsmen on Thames and on Tyne,

Labuan,[12]New Zealand, your chasubles[13]peel, and

In one spurt of hard work, and hard rowing, combine

Our maundering critics may prate as they pleaseOf glory departed and influence flown—Row and work, boys of England, on rivers and seas,And the old land shall hold, firm as ever, her own.

Our maundering critics may prate as they please

Of glory departed and influence flown—

Row and work, boys of England, on rivers and seas,

And the old land shall hold, firm as ever, her own.

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