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Kubernetes in Action First Edition Marko Luksa Digital
Instant Download
Author(s): Marko Luksa
ISBN(s): 9781617293726, 1617293725
Edition: First Edition
File Details: PDF, 11.80 MB
Year: 2018
Language: english

Kubernetes resources covered in the book
* Cluster-level resource (not namespaced)
** Also in other API versions; listed version is the one used in this book
(continues on inside back cover)
Resource (abbr.) [API version] Description Section
Namespace* (ns) [v1] Enables organizing resources into non-overlapping
groups (for example, per tenant)
3.7
Deploying
workloads
Pod (po) [v1] The basic deployable unit containing one or more
processes in co-located containers
3.1
ReplicaSet (rs) [apps/v1beta2**] Keeps one or more pod replicas running 4.3
ReplicationController (rc) [v1] The older, less-powerful equivalent of a
ReplicaSet
4.2
Job [batch/v1] Runs pods that perform a completable task 4.5
CronJob [batch/v1beta1] Runs a scheduled job once or periodically 4.6
DaemonSet (ds) [apps/v1beta2**] Runs one pod replica per node (on all nodes or
only on those matching a node selector)
4.4
StatefulSet (sts) [apps/v1beta1**] Runs stateful pods with a stable identity 10.2
Deployment (deploy) [apps/v1beta1**] Declarative deployment and updates of pods 9.3
Services
Service (svc) [v1] Exposes one or more pods at a single and stable
IP address and port pair
5.1
Endpoints (ep) [v1] Defines which pods (or other servers) are
exposed through a service
5.2.1
Ingress (ing) [extensions/v1beta1] Exposes one or more services to external clients
through a single externally reachable IP address
5.4
Config
ConfigMap (cm) [v1] A key-value map for storing non-sensitive config
options for apps and exposing it to them
7.4
Secret [v1] Like a ConfigMap, but for sensitive data 7.5
Storage
PersistentVolume* (pv) [v1] Points to persistent storage that can be mounted
into a pod through a PersistentVolumeClaim
6.5
PersistentVolumeClaim (pvc) [v1] A request for and claim to a PersistentVolume 6.5
StorageClass* (sc) [storage.k8s.io/v1] Defines the type of dynamically-provisioned stor-
age claimable in a PersistentVolumeClaim
6.6

Kubernetes
in Action
MARKO LUKŠA
M A N N I N G
SHELTER ISLAND

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Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 – EBM – 22 21 20 19 18 17

To my parents,
who have always put their children’s needs above their own

vii
brief contents
PART 1 OVERVIEW
1 ■ Introducing Kubernetes 1
2 ■ First steps with Docker and Kubernetes 25
PART 2 CORE CONCEPTS
3 ■ Pods: running containers in Kubernetes 55
4 ■ Replication and other controllers: deploying
managed pods 84
5 ■ Services: enabling clients to discover and talk
to pods 120
6 ■ Volumes: attaching disk storage to containers 159
7 ■ ConfigMaps and Secrets: configuring applications 191
8 ■ Accessing pod metadata and other resources from
applications 225
9 ■ Deployments: updating applications declaratively 250
10 ■ StatefulSets: deploying replicated stateful
applications 280

BRIEF CONTENTS
viii
PART 3 BEYOND THE BASICS
11 ■ Understanding Kubernetes internals 309
12 ■ Securing the Kubernetes API server 346
13 ■ Securing cluster nodes and the network 375
14 ■ Managing pods’ computational resources 404
15 ■ Automatic scaling of pods and cluster nodes 437
16 ■ Advanced scheduling 457
17 ■ Best practices for developing apps 477
18 ■ Extending Kubernetes 508

ix
contents
preface xxi
acknowledgments xxiii
about this book xxv
about the author xxix
about the cover illustration xxx
PART 1 OVERVIEW
1 Introducing Kubernetes 1
1.1 Understanding the need for a system like Kubernetes 2
Moving from monolithic apps to microservices 3 ■ Providing a
consistent environment to applications 6 ■ Moving to continuous
delivery: DevOps and NoOps 6
1.2 Introducing container technologies 7
Understanding what containers are 8 ■ Introducing the Docker
container platform 12 ■ Introducing rkt—an alternative to Docker 15
1.3 Introducing Kubernetes 16
Understanding its origins 16 ■ Looking at Kubernetes from the
top of a mountain 16 ■ Understanding the architecture of a
Kubernetes cluster 18 ■ Running an application in Kubernetes 19
Understanding the benefits of using Kubernetes 21
1.4 Summary 23

CONTENTS
x
2 First steps with Docker and Kubernetes 25
2.1 Creating, running, and sharing a container image 26
Installing Docker and running a Hello World container 26
Creating a trivial Node.js app 28 ■ Creating a Dockerfile
for the image 29 ■ Building the container image 29
Running the container image 32 ■ Exploring the inside
of a running container 33 ■ Stopping and removing a
container 34 ■ Pushing the image to an image registry 35
2.2 Setting up a Kubernetes cluster 36
Running a local single-node Kubernetes cluster with Minikube 37
Using a hosted Kubernetes cluster with Google Kubernetes
Engine 38 ■ Setting up an alias and command-line completion
for kubectl 41
2.3 Running your first app on Kubernetes 42
Deploying your Node.js app 42 ■ Accessing your web
application 45 ■ The logical parts of your system 47
Horizontally scaling the application 48 ■ Examining what
nodes your app is running on 51 ■ Introducing the
Kubernetes dashboard 52
2.4 Summary 53
PART 2 CORE CONCEPTS
3 Pods: running containers in Kubernetes 55
3.1 Introducing pods 56
Understanding why we need pods 56 ■
Understanding pods 57
Organizing containers across pods properly 58
3.2 Creating pods from YAML or JSON descriptors 61
Examining a YAML descriptor of an existing pod 61 ■
Creating a
simple YAML descriptor for a pod 63 ■
Using kubectl create to
create the pod 65 ■
Viewing application logs 65 ■
Sending
requests to the pod 66
3.3 Organizing pods with labels 67
Introducing labels 68 ■
Specifying labels when creating a pod 69
Modifying labels of existing pods 70
3.4 Listing subsets of pods through label selectors 71
Listing pods using a label selector 71 ■ Using multiple conditions
in a label selector 72

CONTENTS xi
3.5 Using labels and selectors to constrain pod
scheduling 73
Using labels for categorizing worker nodes 74 ■
Scheduling pods to
specific nodes 74 ■
Scheduling to one specific node 75
3.6 Annotating pods 75
Looking up an object’s annotations 75 ■
Adding and modifying
annotations 76
3.7 Using namespaces to group resources 76
Understanding the need for namespaces 77 ■ Discovering other
namespaces and their pods 77 ■ Creating a namespace 78
Managing objects in other namespaces 79 ■ Understanding
the isolation provided by namespaces 79
3.8 Stopping and removing pods 80
Deleting a pod by name 80 ■
Deleting pods using label
selectors 80 ■
Deleting pods by deleting the whole
namespace 80 ■
Deleting all pods in a namespace,
while keeping the namespace 81 ■
Deleting (almost)
all resources in a namespace 82
3.9 Summary 82
4 Replication and other controllers: deploying managed pods 84
4.1 Keeping pods healthy 85
Introducing liveness probes 85 ■ Creating an HTTP-based
liveness probe 86 ■ Seeing a liveness probe in action 87
Configuring additional properties of the liveness probe 88
Creating effective liveness probes 89
4.2 Introducing ReplicationControllers 90
The operation of a ReplicationController 91 ■
Creating a
ReplicationController 93 ■
Seeing the ReplicationController
in action 94 ■
Moving pods in and out of the scope of a
ReplicationController 98 ■
Changing the pod template 101
Horizontally scaling pods 102 ■
Deleting a
ReplicationController 103
4.3 Using ReplicaSets instead of ReplicationControllers 104
Comparing a ReplicaSet to a ReplicationController 105
Defining a ReplicaSet 105 ■
Creating and examining a
ReplicaSet 106 ■
Using the ReplicaSet’s more expressive
label selectors 107 ■
Wrapping up ReplicaSets 108

CONTENTS
xii
4.4 Running exactly one pod on each node with
DaemonSets 108
Using a DaemonSet to run a pod on every node 109
Using a DaemonSet to run pods only on certain nodes 109
4.5 Running pods that perform a single completable
task 112
Introducing the Job resource 112 ■
Defining a Job resource 113
Seeing a Job run a pod 114 ■
Running multiple pod instances
in a Job 114 ■
Limiting the time allowed for a Job pod to
complete 116
4.6 Scheduling Jobs to run periodically or once
in the future 116
Creating a CronJob 116 ■
Understanding how scheduled
jobs are run 117
4.7 Summary 118
5 Services: enabling clients to discover and talk to pods 120
5.1 Introducing services 121
Creating services 122 ■
Discovering services 128
5.2 Connecting to services living outside the cluster 131
Introducing service endpoints 131 ■ Manually configuring
service endpoints 132 ■ Creating an alias for an external
service 134
5.3 Exposing services to external clients 134
Using a NodePort service 135 ■
Exposing a service through
an external load balancer 138 ■
Understanding the peculiarities
of external connections 141
5.4 Exposing services externally through an Ingress
resource 142
Creating an Ingress resource 144 ■
Accessing the service
through the Ingress 145 ■
Exposing multiple services
through the same Ingress 146 ■
Configuring Ingress to
handle TLS traffic 147
5.5 Signaling when a pod is ready to accept connections 149
Introducing readiness probes 149 ■ Adding a readiness probe
to a pod 151 ■ Understanding what real-world readiness
probes should do 153

CONTENTS xiii
5.6 Using a headless service for discovering individual
pods 154
Creating a headless service 154 ■
Discovering pods
through DNS 155 ■
Discovering all pods—even those
that aren’t ready 156
5.7 Troubleshooting services 156
5.8 Summary 157
6 Volumes: attaching disk storage to containers 159
6.1 Introducing volumes 160
Explaining volumes in an example 160 ■ Introducing available
volume types 162
6.2 Using volumes to share data between containers 163
Using an emptyDir volume 163 ■
Using a Git repository as the
starting point for a volume 166
6.3 Accessing files on the worker node’s filesystem 169
Introducing the hostPath volume 169 ■
Examining system pods
that use hostPath volumes 170
6.4 Using persistent storage 171
Using a GCE Persistent Disk in a pod volume 171 ■
Using other
types of volumes with underlying persistent storage 174
6.5 Decoupling pods from the underlying storage
technology 176
Introducing PersistentVolumes and PersistentVolumeClaims 176
Creating a PersistentVolume 177 ■
Claiming a PersistentVolume
by creating a PersistentVolumeClaim 179 ■
Using a
PersistentVolumeClaim in a pod 181 ■
Understanding the
benefits of using PersistentVolumes and claims 182 ■
Recycling
PersistentVolumes 183
6.6 Dynamic provisioning of PersistentVolumes 184
Defining the available storage types through StorageClass
resources 185 ■
Requesting the storage class in a
PersistentVolumeClaim 185 ■
Dynamic provisioning
without specifying a storage class 187
6.7 Summary 190

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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,
Every man to his fancy:—I’m too old to mend—
So give me a 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, and
In one spurt of hard work, and hard rowing, combine
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.
[11] “Dead noser,” the Tyne phrase for a wind in your teeth.
[12] The Bishops were famous oarsmen. Dr. Macdougal rowed
bow oar in Menzies’ boat, and was a dear friend of my brother’s.
[13] Query: Do Bishops wear “chasubles?”—G.E.H. [Note
appended by my brother to the original copy.]

CHAPTER V.
DEGREE.
The Schools were now very near ahead of him, and, though not
much behindhand with his work, considering the intensity of his
exertions in other directions, he was anxious to make the most of
the months that were left. He read very hard in vacation, but, when
term began again, had to encounter unusual difficulties. His father’s
half-hinted warnings against a large acquaintance proved prophetic.
In fact, I used to wonder how he ever got his reading done at all,
and was often not a little annoyed with many of my own
contemporaries, and other younger men still, even to the last batch
of freshmen, whose fondness for his society was untempered by any
thought of examinations, or honours. Not one of them could give a
wine, or a breakfast party, without him, and his good-nature kept
him from refusing when he found that his presence gave real
pleasure. Then he never had the heart to turn them out of his
rooms, or keep his oak habitually sported; and when that most
necessary ceremony for a reading man had been performed, it was
not respected as it should have been. My rooms were on the same
staircase, half a flight below his (which looked into the quadrangle,
while mine looked out over the back of the College), so that I could
hear all that happened. Our College lectures were all over at one. It
was well for him if he had secured quiet up to that hour; but, in any
case, regularly within a few minutes after the clock had struck, I
used to hear steps on the stairs, and a pause before his oak. If it
was sported, kicking or knocking would follow, with imploring
appeals, “Now, old ’un” (the term of endearment by which he went
in College), “do open—I know you’re in—only for two minutes.” A
short persistence seldom failed; and soon other men followed on the
same errand, “for a few minutes only,” till it was time for lunch, to

which he would then be dragged off in one of their rooms, and his
oak never get sported again till late at night. Up to his last term in
College this went on, though not to quite the same extent; and even
then there was one incorrigible young idler, who never failed in his
“open sesame,” and wasted more of my brother’s time than all the
rest of the College. But who could be angry with him? He was one of
the smallest and most delicate men I ever saw, weighing about 8st.
l0lb., a capital rider, and as brave as a lion, though we always called
him “the Mouse.” Full of mother wit, but utterly uncultivated, it was
a perfect marvel how he ever matriculated, and his answers, and
attempts at construing, in lecture were fabulous—full of good
impulse, but fickle as the wind; reckless, spendthrift, fast, in
constant trouble with tradesmen, proctors, and the College
authorities. But no tradesman, when it came to the point, had the
heart to “court,” or proctor to rusticate him; and the Dean, though
constantly in wrath at his misdeeds, never got beyond warnings, and
“gating.” So he held on, until his utter, repeated, and hopeless failure
to pass his “smalls,” brought his college career to its inevitable end.
Unfortunately for my brother’s reading, that career coincided with his
third year, and his society had an extraordinary fascination for the
Mouse. The perfect contrast between them, in mind and body, may
probably account for this; but I think the little man had also a sort of
longing to be decent and respectable, and, in the midst of his
wildest scrapes, felt that his intimacy with the best oar and cricketer
in the College, who was also on good terms with the Dons, and paid
his bills, and could write Greek verses, kept him in touch with the
better life of the place, and was a constant witness to himself of his
intention to amend, some day. They had one taste in common,
however, which largely accounted for my brother’s undoubted
affection for the little “ne’er do weel,” a passion for animals. The
Mouse kept two terriers, who were to him as children, lying in his
bosom by night, and eating from his plate by day. Dogs were strictly
forbidden in College, and the vigilance of the porter was proof
against all the other pets. But the Mouse’s terriers defied it. From
living on such intimate terms with their master, they had become as
sharp as undergraduates. They were never seen about the

quadrangles in the day-time, and knew the sound and sight of dean,
tutor, and porter, better than any freshman. When the Mouse went
out of College, they would stay behind on the staircase till they were
sure he must be fairly out in the street, and then scamper across the
two quadrangles, and out of the gate, as if their lives depended on
the pace. In the same way, on returning, they would repeat the
process, after first looking cautiously in at the gate to see that the
porter was safe in his den. But after dusk they were at their ease at
once, and would fearlessly trot over the forbidden grass of the inner
quad, or sit at the Provost’s door, or on the Hall steps, and romp
with anybody not in a master’s gown. So, even when his master’s
knock remained unanswered, Crib’s or Jet’s beseeching whine and
scratch would always bring my brother to the door. He could not
resist dogs, or children.
I have always laid my brother’s loss of his first class at the door of
his young friends, but chiefly on the Mouse, for that little man’s
delinquencies culminated in the most critical moment of the Schools.
The Saturday before paper work began he had seduced George out
for an evening stroll with him, and of course took him through a part
of the town which was famous for town-and-gown rows. Here, a
baker carrying a tray shouldered the Mouse into the gutter. The
Mouse thereupon knocked the baker’s tray off his head. The baker
knocked the little man over, and my brother floored the baker, who
sat in the mud, and howled “Gown, gown.” In two minutes a mob
was on them, and they had to retreat fighting, which, owing to the
reckless pugnacity of his small comrade, was an operation that tried
all my brother’s coolness and strength to the utmost. By the help,
however, of Crib, who created timely diversions by attacking the
heels of the town at critical moments, he succeeded in bringing the
Mouse home, capless, with his gown in shreds, and his nose and
mouth bleeding, but otherwise unhurt, at the cost to himself of a
bad black-eye. The undergraduate remedies of leeches, raw beef-
steak, and paint were diligently applied during the next thirty-six
hours, but with very partial success; and he had to appear in white
tie and bands before the Examiners, on the Monday morning, with

decided marks of battle on his face. In the evening, he wrote home:
—
“My dear Father,
“The first day of paper work is over; I am sorry to
say that I have not satisfied myself at all. Although
logic was my strongest point as I thought, yet through
nervousness, or some other cause, I acquitted myself
in a very slovenly manner; and I feel nervous and
down-hearted about the remainder of the work,
because I know that I am not so strong on those
points as I was in logic. I feel inclined myself to put off
my degree, but I should like to know what you think
about it; I could certainly get through, but I do not
think I should do myself any credit, and I am sure I
should not satisfy myself. I shall continue at the paper
work till I hear from you. I should be very willing to
give up any plans which I have formed for the
vacation, and read quietly at home; and I am sure I
could put the affair beyond a doubt with a little more
reading. But if you think I had better get rid of it at
once, I will continue. I am in very good health, only, as
I tell you, nervous and out of spirits.
“Yours affectionately,
“G. E. Hughes.”
His nervousness was out of place, as I ascertained afterwards
from his tutor, that the Examiners were very much pleased with his
paper work. Indeed, I think that he himself soon got over his
nervousness, and was well satisfied with his prospects when his turn
came for vivâ voce examination. I was foolish enough to choose the
same day for sitting in the Schools, a ceremony one had to perform
in the year preceding one’s own examination. It involved attendance
during the whole day, listening to the attack of the four experts in

row at the long table, on the intellectual works of the single
unfortunate, who sat facing them on the other side. This, when the
victim happens to be your brother, is a severe and needless trial of
nerves and patience.
For some time, however, I was quite happy, as George construed
his Greek plays capitally, and had his Aristotle at his finger ends. He
was then handed on to the third Examiner, who opened Livy and put
him on somewhere in the bewildering Samnite wars, and, when he
had construed, closed the book as if satisfied, just putting him a
casual question as to the end of the campaign, and its effect on
home politics at Rome. No answer, for George was far too downright
to attempt a shot; and, as he told me afterwards, had not looked at
this part of his Livy for more than a year. Of course other questions
followed, and then a searching examination in this part of the
history, which showed that my brother knew his Arnold’s Rome well
enough, but had probably taken up his Livy on trust, which was very
nearly the truth. I never passed a more unpleasant hour, for I
happened to be up in this part of Livy, and, if the theories of
Mesmerism were sound, should certainly have been able to inspire
him with the answers. As it was, I was on the rack all the time, and
left the Schools in a doleful state of mind. I felt sure that he must
lose his first class, and told the group of our men so, who gathered
in the Schools quadrangle to see the Honours list posted. The
Mouse, on the other hand, swore roundly that he was certain of his
first, offering to back his opinion to any amount. I did not bet, but
proved to be right. His name came out in the second class, there
being only five in the first; and we walked back to Oriel a
disconsolate band; the Mouse, I really believe, being more cast
down than any of the party. I never told him that in my opinion he
was himself not a little responsible.
He was obliged to take his own name off the books shortly
afterwards, and started for the Cape, leaving Crib and Jet, the only
valuable possession I imagine that he had in the world, to my
brother. They were lovingly tended to a good old age. Their old
master joined the Mounted Rifles, in which corps (we heard at

second hand, for he never wrote a letter) he fully maintained his
character for fine riding and general recklessness, till he broke down
altogether, and died some two years later. It is a sad little history,
which carries its own moral.

CHAPTER VI.
START IN LIFE.
My brother, after taking his degree, remained up at Oxford in
lodgings, attending lectures; and, when I went out of College in the
term before my own examination, I joined him, and once again we
found ourselves living in a common sitting room. I think it was a
very great pleasure to both of us; and as soon as my troubles in the
Schools were over, and the short leisure time which generally follows
that event had set in, we began to talk over subjects which had
hitherto been scarcely mentioned between us, but which, on the
threshold of active life, were becoming of absorbing interest. In the
previous autumn I had made a tour with a pupil in the North of
England and Scotland. I had gone, by choice, to commercial hotels
in several of the large northern towns, as I had discovered that
commercial rooms were the most likely places for political
discussion, and was anxious to talk over the great question of that
day with the very vigorous and able gentlemen who frequented
them. The Anti-Corn-Law agitation was then at its height, and, to
cut a long story short, I had come back from the North an ardent
Freetrader. In other directions also I was rapidly falling away from
the political faith in which we had been brought up. I am not
conscious, indeed I do not believe, that Arnold’s influence was ever
brought to bear directly on English politics, in the case even of those
boys who (like my brother and myself) came specially under it, in his
own house, and in the sixth form. What he did for us was, to make
us think on the politics of Israel, and Rome, and Greece, leaving us
free to apply the lessons he taught us in these, as best we could, to
our own country. But now his life had been published, and had come
like a revelation to many of us; explaining so much that had
appeared inexplicable, and throwing a white light upon great

sections, both of the world which we had realized more or less
through the classics, and the world which was lying under our eyes,
and all around us, and which we now began, for the first time, to
recognize as one and the same.
The noble side of democracy was carrying me away. I was
haunted by Arnold’s famous sentence, “If there is one truth short of
the highest for which I would gladly die, it is democracy without
Jacobinism;” and “the People’s Charter” was beginning to have
strange attractions for me.
It was just one of those crises in one’s life in which nothing is so
useful, or healthy, for one, as coming into direct and constant
contact with an intellect stronger than one’s own, which looks at the
same subjects from a widely different standpoint.
Now, in the Anti-Corn-Law agitation the leaders of the League
were in the habit of using very violent language. Their speeches
were full of vehement attacks on the landlords and farmers of
England, and of pictures of country life as an inert mass of
selfishness, tyranny, and stupidity. My brother’s hatred of
exaggeration and unfairness revolted against all this wild talk; and
his steady appeal to facts known to us both often staggered my new
convictions. On the general economical question, imperfectly as I
understood it, I think I often staggered him. But, on the other hand,
when he appealed to the example of a dozen landlords whom I
knew (including your grandfather), and made me look at the actual
relations between them and their tenants and their labourers, and
ask myself whether these statements were not utterly untrue in their
case and in the county we knew; whether they were not probably
just as untrue of other counties; and, if that were so, whether a
cause which needed such libels to support it could be a just one, I
was often in my turn sadly troubled for a reply.
Again, though Arnold’s life influenced him quite as powerfully as it
did me, it was in quite a different direction, strengthening specially
in him the reverence for national life, and for the laws, traditions,
and customs with which it is interwoven, and of which it is the

expression. Somehow, his natural dislike to change, and preference
for the old ways, seemed to gain as much strength and nourishment
from the teaching and example of our old master, as the desire and
hope for radical reforms did in me. As for democracy, not even
Arnold’s dictum could move him. “The Demos” was for him always,
the fatuous old man, with two oboli in his cheek, and a wide ear for
the grossest flatteries which Cleon or the Sausage-seller could pour
into it. Those of you who have begun Aristophanes will know to
what I allude. Now, if he had been a man who had any great
reverence for rank or privilege, or who had no sympathies with or
care for the poor, or who was not roused to indignation by any act of
oppression or tyranny, in the frame of mind I was in I should have
cared very little for anything he might have urged. But, knowing as I
did that the fact was precisely the reverse—that no man I had ever
met was more indifferent to rank and title, more full of sympathy
and kindliness to all below him, or more indignant at anything which
savoured of injustice—I was obliged to admit that the truth could not
be all on my side, and to question my own new faith far more
carefully than I should have done otherwise.
And so this was the last good deed which he did for me when our
ways in life parted for the first time, and I went up to London to
read for the Bar, while he remained at Oxford. His plans were not
fixed beyond the summer. He had promised to take two or three
Oriel men to Scotland on a reading party, and accordingly went with
them to Oban in July; and, while there, accepted an offer, which
came to him I scarcely know how, to take charge of the sons of the
late Mr. Beaumont at Harrow, as their private tutor.
I must own I was much annoyed at the time when I heard of this
resolution. I could see no reason for it, and many against it. Here
was he, probably the most popular man of his day at Oxford, almost
sure of a fellowship if he chose to stay up and read for it, one of the
best oars and cricketers in England, a fine sportsman, and enjoying
all these things thoroughly, and with the command of as much as he
chose to take of them, deliberately shelving himself as the tutor of
three young boys. I am afraid there was also a grain of snobbishness

at the bottom of my dislike to the arrangement. Private tutors were
looked upon then by young men—I hope it is so no longer—as a sort
of upper servants; and I was weak enough, notwithstanding my
newly acquired liberalism, to regard this move of George’s as a sort
of loss of caste. He was my eldest brother, and I was very fond and
proud of him. I was sure he would distinguish himself in any
profession he chose to follow, while there was no absolute need of
his following any; and it provoked me to think of his making what I
thought a false move, and throwing away some of the best years of
his life.
However, I knew it was useless to remonstrate, as he had made
up his mind, and so held my tongue, and came to see that he was
quite right. It was not till nearly three years later, when his
engagement was over and he had entered at Doctors’ Commons,
that I came to understand and appreciate his motives. The first of
these you may gather from the following extract from a letter of
your grandfather’s, dated February 23rd, 1849:—“George, it seems,
is unusually lively at the idea of going tooth and nail to work with
men instead of boys; and, now that he has for three years gratified
his whim of keeping himself wholly off my hands, consents to be
assisted like his brothers.” This “whim” of proving to his own
satisfaction that he was worth his keep, and could make his own
living, is not a very usual one nowadays, when most young
Englishmen seem to assume that they have a natural right to
maintenance at the expense of some one. He had then six other
brothers, on whom the example was not altogether thrown away,
though none of us were ever able quite to come up to it. It had the
effect, however, of making us thoughtful in the matter of
expenditure; and, consequently, of the four who went to the
universities, and two who entered the army, not one got into any
money difficulties.
But George had other motives for this step besides the “whim” of
independence. He wished for leisure to make up his mind whether
he should take holy orders, as he had at one time intended to do.
And, since leaving Rugby, he had had no time either for the study of

modern languages or for general reading, and he was anxious to
make up his arrears in both of these directions. This engagement
would give him the leisure he wanted, while keeping him at regular
routine work. His resolve, though taken at the risk of throwing
himself back some years in his future profession, whatever that
might be, was thoroughly characteristic of him, and owing, I think,
in great measure to your grandfather’s own precepts. He was fond of
telling us family stories, and there was none of these of which he
was more proud than that of his maternal great-grandmother. This
good lady was the widow of George Watts, Vicar of Uffington, a
younger son himself, who died at the age of forty-two, leaving her in
very poor circumstances. She sold off everything, and invested the
proceeds in stocking a large dairy farm in the village where she had
lived as the great lady, there being no resident squire in the parish.
If any of you ever care to make a pilgrimage to the place, you will
find the farmhouse, which she occupied nearly 200 years ago, close
to the fish-pond in Uffington. She was well connected, and her
friends tried to persuade her not to give up her old habits; but she
steadily refused all visiting, though she was glad to give them a cup
of chocolate, or the like, when they chose to call on her. By
attending to her business, rising early and working late, she
managed to portion her daughter, and give her son a Cambridge
education, by which he profited, and died Master of the Temple,
where you may see his monument. He was true to his mother’s
training, and sacrificed good chances of further preferment, by
preaching a sermon at Whitehall before George II. and his mistress,
on Court vices, on the text, “And Nathan said unto David, Thou art
the man.” Such stories, drunk in by a boy of a quiet, self-contained,
thorough nature, were sure to have their effect; and this “whim” of
George’s was one of their first-fruits in his case. I must add, that
there is no family tradition which I would sooner see grow into an
article of faith with all of you than this of thriftiness, and
independence, as points of honour. So long as you are in statu
pupillari, of course you must live at the expense of your friends; but
you may do so either honestly, or dishonestly. A boy, or young man,
born and bred a gentleman, ought to feel that there is an

honourable contract between him and his friends; their part being to
pay his bills, and make him such an allowance as they can afford,
and think right, and sufficient; his, to work steadily, and not to get in
debt, or cultivate habits and indulge tastes which he cannot afford.
You will see through life all sorts of contemptible ostentation and
shiftlessness on every side of you. Nurses, if they are allowed, begin
with fiddle-faddling about children, till they make them utterly
helpless, unable to do anything for themselves, and thinking such
helplessness a fine thing. Ladies’ maids, grooms, valets, flunkeys,
keepers, carry on the training as they get older. Even at public
schools I can see this extravagance and shiftlessness growing in
every direction. There are all sorts of ridiculous expenses, in the
shape of costumes and upholstery of one kind or another, which are
always increasing. The machinery of games gets every year more
elaborate. When I was in the eleven at Rugby, we “kept big-side”
ourselves; that is to say, we did all the rolling, watering, and
attending to the ground. We chose and prepared our own wickets,
and marked out our own creases, for every match. We had no
“professional” and no “pavilion,” but taught ourselves to play; and
when a strange eleven was coming to play in the school close, asked
the Doctor for one of the schools, in which we sat them down to a
plain cold dinner. I don’t say that you have not better grounds, and
are not more regularly trained cricketers now; but it has cost a great
deal in many ways, and the game has been turned into a profession.
Now, one set of boys plays just like another; then, each, of the great
schools had its own peculiar style, by which you could distinguish it
from the rest. And, after you leave school, you will find the same
thing in more contemptible forms, at the Universities and in the
world. You can’t alter society, or hinder people in general from being
helpless, and vulgar—from letting themselves fall into slavery to the
things about them if they are rich, or from aping the habits and vices
of the rich if they are poor. But you may live simple manly lives
yourselves, speaking your own thought, paying your own way, and
doing your own work, whatever that may be. You will remain
gentlemen so long as you follow these rules, if you have to sweep a
crossing for your livelihood. You will not remain gentlemen in

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