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THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN.
by
I. E. M.
London
Saunders and Otley, Conduit Street.
1846.
"To preserve the past is half of immortality."
D'ISRAELI THE ELDER.
PREFACE.
The author is anxious to request any person who may meet with this
trifling volume to bear in mind that it contains the memoir of an
unworthy member of the place to which it alludes--that many years have
now elapsed since he quitted the spot where its regulations with
regard to education have been as much altered as improved. For Eton!
"my heart is thine though my shadow falls on a distant land." But
should these pages influence the judgment of any mistaken but
well-meaning parent, as to his son's future destination, the writer
will hope that he has not exposed himself in vain.
THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ETONIAN.
BOOK THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
"Here's Harry crying!" And on the instant, my brother awoke the elder
ones to witness and enjoy the astounding truth.
"What makes you think that?" I replied, in as resolute a tone as a
throat choking with anguish would admit of.
"Why, you're crying now," added another brother; "I see the tears
shining in the moonlight."
"Only a little," I at length admitted; and, satisfied with the
concession, my numerous brethren composed themselves once more to
sleep in the corners of the carriage, on their way to Eton, leaving my
eldest brother's pointer and myself at the bottom, to our own
reflections As for old Carlo, his still and regular breathing evinced
that his mind was as easy and comfortable as his body, sagaciously
satisfying himself with the evil of the day as it passed over him.
Here Carlo had the advantage of me,--I anticipated the morrow. Strange
and boisterous school-boys, tight-pantalooned ushers, with menacing
canes, were, to my yet unsophisticated mind, anything but agreeable
subjects for a reverie, and I felt proportionately doleful; I turned
my thoughts on the past, and I was very miserable.
I now learnt that I had been happy, and, for the first time,
appreciated that happiness. The hours of this long, weary day had
appeared to be as many months; and when I ruminated on former scenes,
and their dear little events, I sighed in bitterness, "What a time ago
all this seems!" And as I peered up at the moon from my abyss through
the window, my eyes unconsciously swam with tears, when I reflected
that, if at home, I should at this moment be taking tea with my dear
nurse, Lucy, and my sister's governess, just before I went to bed.
I had now bid an eternal farewell to, doubtless, by far the
dearest,--happiest period of our existence, the dawn of life's
day--that enviable time when "we have no lessons;" when the colt
presses, with his unshod foot, the fresh and verdant meadow, while he
wonders at the team toiling under a noontide sun, over the parched
and arid fallow in the distance.
This, then, was my first lesson of experience; and on reflection,
perhaps many of us will agree that, after all the vaunted troubles and
anxieties incident to manhood, few surpass in intensity and
hopelessness the sad separation from home for a detested school; it is
real and wringing anguish, though, fortunately, like flayed eels, we
eventually become inured to it.
I now went through, for three years at a private school, the usual
routine of punishment and bullying preparatory for Eton; and as these
were of the ordinary kind, I will at once omit this epoch of my life,
and commence with my _debût_ at that great capital of England's
schools.
It may not be out of place to give here a slight and rapid sketch of
the scene to which these immediate pages are confined, as well as of
other matters connected with it.
Every one knows where Windsor is, and that Eton was separated from it
by the Thames, until united by Windsor Bridge. But, with regard to the
latter town, there may be some confusion, for it is divided into Eton,
and Eton proper. This last will hereafter be distinguished as
"College," and is situated about half a mile from the bridge, to which
it is connected by the town.
"College," I think, may be said to comprehend "the school-yard," the
suburbs, and "the playing fields."
"The school-yard" is a spacious and respectable quadrangle; the upper
school, the church, the cloisters, and long chamber, each respectively
forming a side of it. In the centre is placed the statue of the
founder, Henry VI.
"The upper school" is placed over an arched cloister, and an
ominous-looking region, in which, I suspect, is the magazine of birch.
The school is nothing more than an extensive room, with its floor
lined with fixed forms, and the wainscot with sculptured names
innumerable. One is guilty of a sad omission should he quit Eton
without giving a crown to Cartland to perpetuate his name on the
immortal oak. Perhaps the loss of few olden records would be more
deplored than its destruction, for here are registered many of Eton's
worthiest sons; C.I. FOX, as in after life, is here pre-eminent.
Adjoining the upper end is another room, called "the library," in
which there is not a book, but there is "the block," which speaks
volumes; and as a library may, by a little forcing, be defined to be a
chamber set apart for the acquirement of learning, this room is not,
perhaps, misnamed.
This block is a very simple machine--merely a couple of steps. The
victim places his knees on the lower, and his elbows on the upper
step; but if the reader will thus place himself in his imagination,
he will enter more immediately into the spirit of the thing.
In front of him he sees a couple of little collegers, to hold aside
the skirts of his coat. On his left is Keate, like Jupiter about to
hurl his thunderbolt; on his right "the birch cupboard;" and though he
can see nothing, he has little doubt of what is in his rear, the
instant he is operated on. "Neither intemperance nor old age hae, in
gout or rheumatic, an agony to compare wi' a weel-laid-on whack of the
tawse, on a part that for manners shall be nameless."
The church, though not very remarkable for its dimensions, may be
styled a handsome and venerable Gothic edifice; simple and regular,
with its sides supported by deep and lofty buttresses, the recesses of
which form the boys' "fives-walls."
The cloisters form another small quadrangle. Over them are built the
comfortable dwellings of the "College fellows," and "the College
library," which is somewhat more appropriately furnished than that
just described.
The Fellows have each been boys on the foundation, having been
elected, according to seniority, to King's College, Cambridge, from
whence they have been re-elected Fellows of Eton.
"Long chamber" is long enough to contain nearly the whole of the
collegers, or boys on the foundation, whose complement I conjecture to
be about seventy. This is a region of which I can give but an
uncertain description, for few "Oppidans" cared to venture in. When I
did, it was to be tossed in a blanket, so that, though elevated, my
survey was hasty and superficial; but I suspect that the entire
furniture to which a colleger lays claim, is his bed and bureau,
tables and chairs being here as much out of keeping (if they could be
kept at all) as at Stonehenge. _En passant_--this tossing was a
pastime replete with the sublime and awful. That their efforts might
be simultaneous, those who held the blanket, and they were legion,
made use of the following neat hexameter:
"Ibis ab excusso, missus ab astra, sago."
And you go with a vengeance. "You shall fly from the quivering
blanket, despatched to the stars." The suspense was fearful while
awaiting the utterance of the ultimate syllable--how perfectly and
permanently have I acquired this pithy verse!
The floor is polished once a year on Election Friday, by "rug-riding."
This is accomplished by rolling a fellow up in a counterpane, here
properly called a rug. To either end of him is attached a rope, to
which five or six boys are harnessed. The floor is now well smeared
with tallow-grease, over which the warm mummy, rendered still hotter
by friction, is now drawn with delightful velocity. The polish thus
obtained is admirable, and but the slightest flavour of grease lingers
until the ensuing election.
The suburbs form a small town, composed of a few large and
indispensable shops, together with the houses of the masters and
dames, at whose houses the boys, not on the foundation, and who are
denominated "oppidans," board and lodge.
"The playing-fields" are very extensive, and subdivided into the
playing-fields, "upper-shooting-fields," and "lower-shooting-fields."
The two latter are separated from the former by "poet's-walk," a
lovely little peninsula, with an avenue of lime-trees running through
its entire length.
The shooting-fields are appropriated solely to cricket, and in winter
are "out of bounds." The playing-fields are open for foot-ball in the
winter, and for fighting all the year round. The whole is most
beautifully situated on the banks of the Thames, with the Little Park
and Windsor Castle on the opposite side. In addition, it is lined and
studded with the stateliest and most gigantic elms in England.
These three divisions, the school-yard, suburbs, and playing-fields,
form in theory "the bounds," which in practice are boundless, an
Etonian's movements being curbed by time, rather than by space.
Eton, at its foundation, was a charity-school for seventy boys. In
time, it received other pupils. The original ones are collegers, who
are distinguished by a coarse black gown; the latter are oppidans,
literally meaning "town-boys." The former may not wear white trowsers,
and all are debarred boots, and black or coloured neckcloths.
Collegers are dieted solely on mutton; hence they are familiarly and
vulgarly termed "mutton-tugs," abbreviated to "tugs," which homely
monosyllable they themselves derive from _togati_, on account of their
wearing the _toga_--had they not better trace their origin at once
from that mysterious and secret society of the Thugs of India? But
their internal economy should be treated with diffidence, for between
them and the oppidans there was ever an undefined, though "great gulf
fixed." Owing to this, there is a difficulty in deciding how much, if
any, of the following incident may be authentic. As asserted above,
they were confined to mutton, the whole mutton, and nothing but the
mutton, until the humane, but late Mr. Godolphin bequeathed a sum of
money, to be appropriated in supplying them with potatoes, which
henceforth accompanied the mutton, though in a state of nature; and
as this was not contrary to the statute, and as in all charities as
little is done for the money as is possible, the poor boys and their
potatoes were without remedy, until one of the College Fellows kindly
bequeathed an annuity towards extricating them from their dilemma. He
has ever since been appropriately immortalized as "Pealipo Roberts."
Each boy has a tutor, who is one of the masters, of whom there are
about thirteen. Their chief occupation is in correcting, and
explaining the errors of their pupils' exercises. At the period now
spoken of, the school consisted of six hundred and twenty boys,
probably the greatest number it had hitherto attained. Each master's
house is generally filled with boarders.
The "dames" are boarding-houses, mostly kept by clergymen's widows, or
widows of some sort; there are also about thirteen of these.
Assistant masters are professors of French, mathematics, writing, and
dancing; but they are altogether independent of the college, and are
taken or not at the will of the parents.
There is another class of assistant masters, and these are the Cads.
They are the professors of shooting, rowing, and cricket, and have
many pupils. The most leading characters among them were Jack Hall,
Lary Miller, Pickey Powell, and Jemmy Flowers; but with regard to the
latter there existed a slight odium, owing to his religious tenets--he
was suspected of Mahometanism. Lary Miller ever asserted his
conviction, that "Jemmy was a Maho-maiden, having surprised him one
evening in the Brocas, lying on his stomach, worshipping a very large
mushroom." Making due allowance for Lary's notorious veracity, and for
Jemmy Flowers' religious inebriety, still the circumstance of a
mushroom, and that a large one, flourishing on the Brocas, must ever
throw a strong air of improbability over this assertion.
There is a holiday on every red-lettered saint's-day in the calendar;
when this, or no other excuse occurs, it is termed "a regular week,"
when Tuesday is a whole holiday, Thursday half an one, and Saturday
three-quarters.
The longest period of time a boy uninterruptedly enjoys to himself may
be said to comprise two hours, commencing each time at twelve, four,
and six o'clock, on whole and half holidays; and these periods are
designated by the never-to-be-forgotten sounds of "after twelve,"
"after four," and "after six."
"Whole school days" affect this arrangement but little, the difference
being, that on holidays, they are separated from each other, by
attendance on absence, and church; and on whole school-days, by
school-times, of which there are four, commencing each at eight,
eleven, three, and five o'clock.
The boys learn all their lessons, and do their exercises, in their own
rooms, going into school to say or construe them. One school-time
occupies about three-quarters of an hour.
The whole school is divided into six forms, of which the sixth ranks
the highest. This, and the fifth form, comprise about half the number
of boys, for whom the lower half fag. An upper boy may fag a lower one
to Windsor, or anywhere else.
Though the river be out of bounds, half of the boys dedicate
themselves to boating during the summer. The extent and main object of
their expedition is "Surly Hall," a notorious public-house, three
miles up the river from Windsor Bridge. Surly Hall may be said to be
appropriated to the Etonians, and here they rest themselves. I never
recollect one boy guilty of intoxication at this place.
There are two grand aquatic processions every year up to this Surly
Hall--on the 4th of June, George the Third's birth-day; and on
Election Saturday, towards the end of July. They are beautiful
gala-days, when eight or ten long-boats are rowed by their crews in
costume, accompanied by a couple of military bands; swarms of nobility
and gentry come from London to enjoy them, some person of peculiar
rank being "the sitter" in the leading boat; but boating is not
allowed.
"Montem," so called, perhaps, from the ceremony of a boy flourishing a
flag on a small mount, occurs every third year, when the upper boys
are dressed as officers, and the fags, resembling sailors, in white
trowsers and blue jackets. Thus they are obliged to expose themselves
to a multitude, while they walk to Salt Hill, where they dine. As an
Eton boy, I have witnessed four Montems, and could never think of each
but as a ridiculous, tedious, and detestable performance; the only
good resulting is, that the captain of the collegers receives several
hundreds of pounds, which are collected from the crowd by other
collegers in fancy dresses, and denominated "salt-bearers," and
"runners," who dun high and low for "salt."